


Hope for the Hopeless

by insideimfeelindirty



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Anal Sex, Angst, Bellamy is a nerd, Canon speculative, Christmas Fluff, Daddy Kink, F/M, Fluff, Grief, Ice Play, Kink Meme, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pregnancy, Shameless Smut, Smut, Temperature Play, Wedding Interruption, What else is new, alternative universe, attempt at plot, bellamy does yoga, bellamy thinks he's a monster, breath play, canonverse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:18:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6538714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insideimfeelindirty/pseuds/insideimfeelindirty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of tumblr prompts for  <a href="http://thebellarkes.tumblr.com/">The Bellarkes</a>.</p><p>Chapter 16: Modern AU Christmas Fluff</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lie To Me

**Author's Note:**

> Based on perhaps the best tumblr prompt I've ever seen: "Bellarke anal. I don't care who does it to who."  
> So there it is, but with a healthy dose of angst on the side.

“ _Bell_ ,” she whispers against his neck, pleading, needy.

His hands burn against her, singe her, leaving unseen angry lines. He sheds her clothes and with each item hitting the floor with a soft thunk he sheds her pain, her anger, her grief, her hopelessness, leaving only desperation.

She uses him, she knows. Uses him to make herself feel better, but she hopes it does the same for him. She hopes for a few hours he can forget, that her touch distracts him from his own pain, grief, anger and hopelessness.

_I just want to feel something other than this._

She had been desperate, pleading with him, seeking sanctuary in his quarters after dark, burying hard to handle emotions underneath easier to deal with physical need. He never asks why, just accepts and gives her everything she needs for as long as he can. Until the light of dawn filter through the broken shutters and reality flushes over her again.

She asks him to make up nice words, soothing and healing, words she’s been missing, words to give her hope. She asks him to punish her with his body, always pushing herself further, chasing each other towards an unknown but inevitable conclusion.

“Everything is going to be ok,” he mumbles against her breast, sweet words in contrast to the sharp bite of his teeth against sensitive skin.

She runs her nails over his back, creating fresh red lines over old, fading ones.

“You did what you had to,” he whispers against a dark bruise on her inner thigh, the one he keeps coming back to every time, deepening the colour.

She tugs hard at his curls as he moves further up, bruising his scull, his tongue rough against her and his fingers impatient and unyielding.

“It’s not your fault,” he rumbles against her clit and the sensation sends her soaring.

She craves his words as much as she craves his body, makes him tell her the sweet lies she needs to hear, lets him piece her back together while he works to unravel her at the same time.

“ _More_ ,” she whines, squirming under him, bucking against strong hands that hold her down.

She needs to feel _more_. Every time they do this she wants a little bit more, like a drug addict upping her dosage as each high becomes a little less potent.

He flips her over on all fours, fingers sinking into her hips, bruising but anchoring her. He kicks her legs apart with his knees, letting his palm slide all the way up her spine, pushing her shoulders gently into the mattress. He keeps his hand on her neck as his mouth follows the trail.

“You sure about this, Princess?"

His breath his hot in her ear, his voice slightly cracked, like maybe he needs this too.

“ _Please_ , Bell."

He does what he can with what he has, readying himself for her so she’ll accept him, testing her with his fingers first. She moans softly into the mattress, arches her back and rocks back against him, always pushing further.

“ _Fuck_."

He is her weapon against herself, an addiction, a necessity. She wants him to hurt her, to punish her, so she can stop hurting herself. His kiss numbs her, his hands still her raging mind and when he finally pushes inside her she forgets all the things she doesn’t want to remember.

They crash against each other like boulders in a landslide, leaving the world behind them damaged beyond recognition. He burns her, pain shooting up her vertebrae as he fills and stretches her, leaving a tingling heat all over her back. His hand winds into her hair, wrapping it in a knot around his hand before pulling back.

“You couldn’t have done anything different,” he huffs behind her, breath strained but his words so soft that she nearly collapses under them.

His free hand winds around her, palming her breasts roughly before sliding down into her curls, pulsing to the beat of their rhythm. He pushes her higher, faster, further and finally her mind goes blank, and it’s only her and him and this.

“Lie to me again,” she sobs, her throat sore and her breath hard and fast.

“I love you."

They crash back down together, heaving and shuddering, his mouth soft and slack as he trails lazy kisses down her neck and back. Her legs are trembling beneath her and her mind is humming quietly on a low frequency. She slides back into him, drawing his arms tightly around her. She’s asleep within minutes, heavy and soft, calm and at peace, for as long as it lasts. When morning comes, she knows this feeling will be gone again, like it always is.

What she doesn’t know, what he doesn’t tell her, is that he means every word.


	2. Monster Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this prompt by [bellamysking](http://bellamysking.tumblr.com/post/142914131248/whatever-you-do-do-not-imagine-clarke-being)
> 
> _Whatever you do, do not imagine Clarke being pregnant with Bellamy’s child and Bellamy being awake at night, deep in thoughts until Clarke can’t stand it and asks what’s going on._
> 
> _Whatever you do, do not imagine Bellamy asking Clarke something like this:  
>  “What do i do when our child finds out what I did and sees me as a monster?”_

He tosses and turns on the bed, too hot but too cold at the same time. Beside him she sleeps soundly, chest swelling, two heartbeats thrumming. Her belly is extended, stretched and unfamiliar, a small hand resting protectively over it as she sleeps. 

 

It hadn’t seemed real at first. _I’m pregnant_ , she’d said, eyes wide and voice small. It was supposed to be near impossible, but things down here didn’t work like they used to on the Ark. So the impossible quickly became reality, which quickly became a nightmare. If they couldn’t rely on their medicine, what else could go wrong?

 

She wore a pained frown for the next weeks, stealing into the med bay to have hushed discussions with her mother when she thought he wasn’t paying attention. She became hyper aware of her own frailty, taking small considered steps as she moved around camp, forcing herself to not join in with the various physical tasks of preparing for winter. At night, when they were alone the normally independent, brave Clarke faltered, leaning into his hands as he rubbed comforting circles on her back, clutching her stomach instinctually. She never said a thing to him about it, it just became another one of those things they never talk about. Like Charlotte. Like Mount Weather. Like her and him. They both knew exactly what happened, so why waste time talking about it?

 

They walk on needles for weeks, until it happened. Until three days ago she felt a flutter deep inside. She’d brushed it off as nerves at first, she’d admitted later. It wasn’t until it happened again two days later and she went to see her mother that she even told him about it. _The baby is moving_ , she’d said, eyes round and wet, bottom lip worried between her teeth. _I can feel her._  


 

Everything was progressing normally, Abby had said, they could relax. Clarke’s shoulders sank, her smile returned, but it was wider and more hopeful than he’d ever seen on her. He let a deep breath out and realised he’d been holding it since the very first day. 

 

Later that night she felt it again, so she pressed his hand against her belly and there it was. Like a strong, irregular heartbeat. A thump against his palm, a sign of life and a reminder that his was about to change forever. Laughter bubbled up in his throat, a foreign feeling in times like these, and when he looked up at her there were tears in the corners of her eyes. 

 

He slept soundly that night, his hand resting on top of hers on top of their unborn child. The following night he’d woken up in a cold sweat. _This is really happening._  


The first months had been spent anticipating the loss of something that might never happen, the loss of someone he might have never had. Now his mind is filled with promises of something that is definitely happening. He imagines firsts, milestones, how she will be, how they will be and then he falters. He imagines himself, how he will be, what kind of man he wants to be, and then… _What if she finds out I’m a monster?_  


The thought won’t leave him. He is a part of the history of the place they call home. He is the culling. He is Mount Weather. He is grounder massacres. He is Atom, Charlotte, Roma, Maya, Gina, Monroe, Lincoln. He is his mother. He is blood, chaos and violence. He is death. He is the destroyer of worlds. 

 

Outside the air is much cooler, but no less oppressing. His chest is tight and his breathing shallow, his palms sweaty beneath trembling fingers. His mind is raging a storm, paralysing his senses and testing every instinct. 

 

“Bell?"

 

She slides down next to him, leaning back against the wall of their cabin. Her eyebrows are knotted together in that way they do when all she wants is to take on all his worries herself, the way they knot for every single person in this camp. 

 

“What’s wrong?"

 

There are no good guys, they decided long ago. This is why they always made sense, because they share the same burden. But they can’t share this. She is still pure, still hopeful, still happy. He is neither. 

 

“I don’t know if I can do this."

 

His voice barely comes out as a whisper as he fixes his eyes on the cold ground in front of him, avoiding her gaze. She’d be better off without him. They both would be. 

 

“Of course you can do this."

 

She doesn’t understand, and he didn’t expect her to. She always had too much faith in him, too much forgiveness in her. 

 

“I’m not.."

 

_Good enough. Strong enough. Enough._

“I’m just…"

 

_A murderer. A monster. Nothing._

“You’re her father, Bell. You’re all she’ll ever need."

 

He turns towards her, her jaw determined, her eyes clear and bright in the moonlight. She snakes her fingers around his arm and grips him tightly, insistent. 

 

“What happens when she finds out?"

 

He doesn’t have to spell it out for her, she knows too well what he means. 

 

“What happens when she finds out I’m a monster?"

 

She smiles softy, planting a soft kiss on his forehead and it burns him from the inside out. 

 

“Can't you see?"

 

Her voice is barely a whisper, choked with tears.

 

"I'm a monster too. For there to be heroes, there have to be villains. And maybe we did what we had to do so that our child can have a shot at being a hero."

 

She winces suddenly, clutching her stomach. His hand moves on instinct, landing on top of hers. She presses it against her swollen belly so he can feel it, that uneven heartbeat, the insistent life growing inside. 

 

“You think it’s a girl too?"

 

Her voice is soft now, hopeful again. When his eyes meet hers he knows why it had always made sense, her and him. Two lost souls who could only find their way through the other. Broken humans who will never see each other as they see themselves. 

 

“Another brave Princess."

 

His smile is tentative, fragile, like he’s expecting another apocalypse any moment. And maybe this is the apocalypse. Someone coming into their lives intent on destroying everything they know of the world and create another, beautiful one in their wake. 

 

_I love you._

_I know._

 


	3. Some Kind of Hero

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For [Bellamysking](http://bellamysking.tumblr.com/): Bellamy tellling Clarke again in tears that he is a monster and Clarke saying to him "No you're my hero"

He watches her sleep, fitfully. Her eyelids flutter and her fists twitch, but at least she sleeps. He used to watch her sleep when she was tiny and helpless, but he thinks she has never been more fragile than now, beneath that hard exterior.

 

The fire burns in his throat still, sore from death and dying. Guilt burns in his bones, temporarily preventing him from sleep, permanently preventing him from rest.  

 

In the morning she is gone before he wakes up, because she no longer feels the need to check in with him. Every time she doesn’t he sinks a little deeper, buries himself a little more, hates a little harder. 

 

“I’ll go look for her,” Jasper offers, because he can’t. She won’t let him.

 

He shoots him a grateful nod, but the words stick in his throat. _Tell her I’m sorry I ruined everything._  


 

“She’ll come back.” Clarke reaches for him, squeezes his arm in that way she does, turns her mouth up in a soft, sad smile.

The rain hangs heavy in the air, soaking them as they pack up camp, making her hair cling to her face and the wound on her cheek glow violently red. His curls flatten, his shoulders sag under the extra weight, but inside the embers burn and char.

 

He doesn’t recognise the sound for what it is when it comes. On the lake in front of them a group of birds take sudden flight and the echo that follows is almost deafening. It was a shriek, a hoarse and raw wail, a bloody, mangled cry that sounded almost animal except he knows it’s not. It is the sound of the blood on his hands, the death on his conscience, the unforgivable betrayal. It is grief, anger and darkness he cannot fight. So he breaks. 

 

The tension leaves his body, the tension that has been stringing him up and together for the last weeks, his bones rattle and roar as he crumbles. His trousers are cold and wet where his knees hit the ground, but on the inside his stomach falls as a broken dropship hurtling down towards earth, slamming against steel. His hands sink into mud, biting his hands raw, but the darkness behind his eyes numb him from it. 

 

_“Bellamy."_

 

Clarke’s voice is far away, drowned in sound as if she is miles away and not right in front of him struggling to pull his heavy body up from the mud. His sister’s cry echoes in his ears, her hatred riots in his heart. 

 

“I did that to her."

 

He barely registers the small arms around his neck, the warm skin against his cheek, the soft words in his ears.

 

“It wasn’t your fault."

 

He doesn’t want her reassurance, he doesn’t deserve it. Kane was right. Niylah was right. Octavia was right.  He shouldn’t be forgiven, because _it matters why_. 

 

“My eyes were open, Clarke."

 

He followed a path he could convince himself was the right one, because it was easy to feed all his anger and hurt into that agenda. It was easy to pull the trigger, it was easy to avert his eyes, it was easy to choose violence. It was easy to do something for all the wrong reasons and call it right.

 

“You didn’t know how far Pike would go."

 

“I shouldn’t have waited to find out."

 

She can’t talk him innocent and she can’t squeeze the broken parts of him together, as hard as she tries. Hot tears mix with cold rain on his lashes, and behind them every life he has ever saved is being replaced by one he has taken. His own life feels like a punishment, like a sentence. 

 

“You know what I was thinking when I was in that airlock? When the air started to leave my lungs?"

 

“Don’t."

 

He tries to losen her grip around him, but she clings on tighter, her breath warm against the goosebumps on his neck. He wonders if she can feel him shaking.  

 

“ _Finally_. That’s what I thought."

 

“Bellamy, please."

 

Her tears run like hot streams down his neck and down the back of his shirt, because she has always bled more for him than for herself. 

 

“It would be easier for everyone."

 

He sees a thousand eyes burn with disappointment in him, everyone who ever believed he was one of the good guys, everyone who ever trusted him. Even her. Her eyes still burn the brightest. He’d known all along he wasn’t the man his mother had raised and the man Clarke saw him as. He was a boy who let his anger get in the way, who let his fear control him, who let his demons out to play. 

 

“Not for me. I still need you."

 

He lets her pull him back on his heels, lets her turn him around to face her red rimmed eyes. 

 

_“We need each other."_

"I’m a monster, Clarke. Always was.”

 

He holds her gaze, open and honest as he always is with her, except this time he doesn’t look away. He bores into her every way she’s gotten him wrong, every reason her trust in him is misguided, every way her belief in him is in vain. He isn’t what she sees, he just isn’t. 

 

“No, you’re a hero."

 

He knew she would tell him something like that, but it still hurts, knowing what he could have been but never will be. He sighs deeply, pulling back from her, back into his darkness. 

 

“Octavia hates me. Lincoln is dead. Monroe is dead. Gina is dead. Arkadia is a ghost town. We don’t have a home and our people are all gone. I am no hero. I’m broken.”

 

Her eyes are dark, almost black as she looks at him, burning holes in his soul, breaking what is already broken. She looks at him like he wishes Octavia would. Unconditional. 

 

“Everyone has a chapter in their life they don’t read out loud, all heroes do. A hero is someone who doesn’t give up, someone who keeps fighting even when everything goes wrong, someone who is really intent on making this a better place for all of us. _That’s you_." 

 

Her hands are a little stiff and cold on his face but her eyes burn with conviction, and he wants to believe her so badly.

 

"You’re not as broken as you think you are. You’re just a little cracked."

 

She pulls him towards her, arms clinging around his neck, and maybe because she is the only one who’s shown him any hint of sympathy in the last weeks, or maybe its because its _her_ , he lets his arms close around her. He lets his face sink into her shoulder, lets his hands twist into her hair, and when she sighs relief into his neck she extinguishes some of his flames. 

 

_I don’t want to feel this way anymore._

_*_

When Jasper brings Octavia back they both look pained but determined. 

 

“Let’s go,” Octavia says, voice determined but shaky. 

 

As she passes him her eyes flicker over red skin and mud stained knees. She meets his eyes for a second, a glimmer of something passing so quickly he almost misses it. She nods at him briefly, checking in, still with a lot of conditions, but its something.

  

“Told you,” Clarke mumbles as she climbs into the front of the Rover next to him, giving his hand a quick squeeze. 

She doesn’t put him back together, she just stands by his side as he tries to fill the cracks himself. And though he will never see himself as she sees him, he carries it around with him like a badge that to her, he is some kind of hero. 

 


	4. Paper Thin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was asked for a little bit of Daddy kink. To which I had to add a tiny bit of angsty plot as always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Post-finale canon verse, it's the apocalypse y'all. Makes you do the darndest things

It’s another long day of getting nowhere, of trying to make sense of the world coming to an end around them, of mounting frustration and fear. It’s another long day of reassuring and of trying to keep everyone together when they all want is to fall apart. It’s another long day of banging her head against a wall repeatedly knowing she has to get up and do it all over again tomorrow. It’s another day where she finds herself outside his door late at night, hand hesitating on the handle.

 

He’s not surprised to see her, but his shoulders are slumped and he has that weary look on his face that he’s had since forever. If she looked in the mirror right now she’d look exactly the same, dark circles under her eyes, sunken cheeks. 

 

“No progress with Raven and Monty?"

 

“Not yet."

 

He nods softly, picking at the scabs that still mar his knuckles, tight pink skin stretching lines between hard red and smooth tan. She bites her lip, waiting for something, for a cue. When he looks back up his eyes are soft and his smile is thin.

 

“Come here."

 

He makes room for her between his legs and she sinks down to the floor, resting her head against his knee. It feels so good to come here and let go, to let him wash away the day, to let herself reset. He strokes her hair slowly, his thumb brushing against her cheek occasionally, soothing her.

 

“Turn off your mind, sweetheart,” he murmurs, fingers tangling in her locks, calloused skin grazing her neck. “You don’t need to finish this now, you don’t need to have all the answers to everything."

 

She sighs deeply, hopelessly, burying her face in his lap as fingers fan out over her scalp. She tries to focus on him, on his steady, slow breaths, on finger nails lightly scraping against tense skin.

 

“Focus on me, forget about everything else,” he hums, the feel of his fingers over her skin pushing any thought out of her mind, until there is nothing but his skin against hers, his breath matching hers. 

 

She comes to forget, he stays to make her. _All that matters is your mind at ease_ , he said to her the first time, when she came to speak with him in confidence and stayed to feel him slam into her, just so she could feel something, anything else. _And I will make it happen, even if we are here until a new day begins and you can only feel peace for a few minutes. It’s worth it._  


She comes to him with her problems, with their burden, with all the weight of responsibility. She comes to him, places her head in his hands and lets him share and lighten, lets him soothe and calm. She comes so he can make her forget. 

 

“Be a good girl and close your eyes for me,” he rasps, his palm cupping her neck, the warmth of his skin making hers tingle under his touch. “You have nothing to think or worry about here."

 

She closes her eyes, her fingers curling around hard muscle, the heavy, heady scent of him flooding her senses. Her breath hitches when his hand travels down her neck, trailing her spine. He counts each vertebrae with his fingers, slowly, deliberately, maddeningly. 

 

“I’m here, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing against her ear, making a soft moan float from her lips. 

 

He shifts under her, muscles tensing under her grip, his legs widening, hands sliding under and peeling off her layers. She relaxes into his hands, moulds into his touch, leans into every stroke, every grasp. Her own hands curl around hard muscle as his fingers find sensitive skin, tweaking, pinching, flicking.

 

“That feel good, huh?” 

 

His voice is like quicksand, pulling her down, heavy and hot, parting her knees and her lips. She nods her head slowly, savouring the feel of his fingers gliding down her body, snaking between her legs.

 

“This all for me, Princess?” he pants, pushing fingers into wet lace to make his point, pushing out a soft gasp from her lips.

 

“Yeah, all for you,” she breathes, eyes still closed, just letting herself feel, letting his presence vibrate through her.

 

“Good girl,” he whispers against her hair, mouth open and hot on her. He pushes her hair away from her throat, mouthing praise into goosebumps that travel up and down her body like wildfire. 

 

“What do you want?"

 

Her back arches and her head falls back against his shoulder as his fingers push past lace, sliding into her, unsteadying her. 

 

“I want you to make me feel good."

 

Her voice is pleading and small, asking him to get her where she needs to go, giving him the control he needs to take her there. He presses open kisses against her neck, circling his fingers inside her, making her tighten her grasp on his legs.

 

“Don’t I always make you feel good?” he teases, pulling out of her but pressing his hand against her possessively. 

 

She squirms under his hand, desperate for friction but his heavy hand on her shoulder keeps her still, keeps her bucking up against him. The more she reaches for him the more he pulls away.

 

“Yeah, you always make me feel good Daddy,” she submits, breathlessly. The word feels foreign in her mouth, but as soon as it leaves her lips she feels lighter, calmer, safer. He tightens his grip on her, sighing heavily into her shoulder before pulling her up to her feet and turning her around in his arms.  

 

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby,” he murmurs into her stomach, pulling her into him, teeth scraping against flushed skin. “But first we have to get rid of these."

 

He slides her panties down her legs, trailing his fingers back up her legs as they fall to the floor. She is bared to him, exposed and vulnerable, but the way his one hand curls firmly around her hip while the other glides slowly up her stomach to palm her breasts makes her feel grounded and solid. He pulls her down to his knee, supporting her back and reaching down to finish what he started. His teeth smart against hard, pink nipples, soft tongue soothing the sting, his fingers pulling and pushing, driving her closer. 

 

“You’re close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” 

 

The rumble in his throat send shocks through her, lips on puckered skin, sucking, pulling and demanding. Her body tenses and arches, battling the sensation of his mouth on her and his fingers inside her. 

 

“ _Fuck_ , I’m so close,” she moans, louder than she should, louder than is strictly smart, but she is headless and boneless under him, so she forgets the world outside for a moment, lets him take her away. 

 

“You gotta ask nicely, baby girl,” he huffs, voice a little gravely, a little uneven. He curls his fingers inside her, pulling her forward on his leg, her slick heat soaking his trousers. Her heart thumps loudly in her chest, and she wants to move, but the angle he has her at makes it impossible. He doesn’t move, doesn’t flex or pull, doesn’t bite, nibble or suck, he just waits, watches and holds. 

 

Her throat is dry as she swallows, her body craving release but her mind wants more, wants to be taken to that place where she is safe and warm and small. She needs to go where she can let herself go and not worry that the world is going to fall to pieces around her if she does. 

 

  
_“Please, Daddy.”_ The world is white and clean and perfect, she loves and is loved in that moment. “Please let me come."

 

Finally he moves, working her, playing her and she falls apart around him, mouthing _fuck_ and _daddy_ into his hair, over and over and over. 

 

“You’re so beautiful when you come for me, baby,” he sighs into her hair, stroking her softly, bringing her back down, and she doesn’t stop to think about what it all means. There is no time for this, they are out of time, but she’ll take these moments where they can stop time and pretend, even for a moment, that there can still be happiness in this apocalypse.

 

“Thank you,” she mutters under her breath, mouth slack and limbs limp.

 

“I’m not done with you yet, Princess,” he warns, sliding a hard nipple into his mouth and sucking hard, making her twitch and gasp. “It’s my turn now."

 

“Where do you want me?”

 

She is spent but ready, always so ready for him, for them, for this. When his eyes land on hers they are black and hard and her muscles tingle with energy. His lips meet hers and it occurs to her that he’s never kissed her before, even if they have done everything else several times over. His lips meet hers and it lifts her up again, makes the world fade to white, makes her forget that this should be a bad idea, that they’re not supposed to add any more moving part to a broken future. His lips meet hers, her tongue matches his and his teeth draw out a low whine from deep within her.

 

“On your knees please, baby. I want to see you take me in your pretty mouth."

 

She obliges, knees scraping against the cool metal floor, eager hands working on buttons. She wraps herself around him, cheeks hollowed out, tongue hot and heavy against his smooth skin, teeth grazing him just slightly.

 

“Those lips feel so good on me,” he pants, one hand winding her hair around his fist and yanking back, forcing her to take him deeper. “I want to _ruin_ them."

 

She leans in and opens herself up, swallowing around him. Her heart thumps slowly and steadily in her chest, her hands are firm and determined on his hips. Her muscles are strong and rigid as she holds herself up, bracing herself against his tentative thrusts. She closes her eyes briefly, letting herself feel his vulnerability inside her mouth, letting the trust between them swell and grow. She feels him push her, push against her boundaries, but it doesn’t frighten her. She trusts he knows her limits better than she does herself. So she looks up at him, holding his gaze as she pulls his hips forward, taking him deep. 

 

“Fuck, you sure, baby girl?” His eyes are heavy on her, but the question is genuine. She pulls him into her again, humming softly around him. His hand tightens in her hair, making her scalp tingle and her eyes water, goosebumps erupting in protest all over her. 

 

“You’re such a good girl for me, letting me fuck your mouth,” he breathes, voice broken and bottom lip trembling under his words. She craves his pleasure like she craves her own, clawing at his shirt to bring him closer, faster, harder. She welcomes the tears that spill over, the way her throat closes as he pushes right up against her, suffering for him, submitting herself, surrendering to the moment.

 

_“Fuck, baby."_

His body tenses and bows, hand gripping her neck tightly and eyes fluttering back under heavy lashes. His mouth falls open as he succumbs, red and raised cuts glowing on his face, scabbed knuckles dragging over a peaked nipple making her shiver. She keeps him in her mouth until his breathing slows, until he relaxes the grip on her hair, until he is soft and spent inside her. 

 

“Good girl,” he praises, voice still raw, hands still shaking. He gathers her up in his arms, lifting her from the floor and holding her close. His clothes scratch against sensitive skin, but his mouth is soft on hers, his tongue easy against hers, and it feels a little like hope. 

 

Later, they don’t kiss, they don’t talk, and they don’t sleep. But his hands still stroke her hair, his arms still pull her close and she still feels safe and warm. The world isn’t white and clean and perfect, it is dark and raw and damaged, but she thinks maybe she loves and is loved in return anyway. 

 

The next morning she is ready to go again, to bear the fear, the hopelessness, and the world falling to pieces around them. She is ready to hold everyone together, including him, when all they want to do is to fall apart. Because she knows how to keep her own pieces glued together and who will pick them up if she breaks. 

 


	5. Eyes Shut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr prompt: AU, Clarke and Bellamy use to date but her mother forced her to marry Lexa for political alliance. It's been a few years but Clarke is still pining over Bellamy and they meet at a fundraiser where he is a waiter, his second job. He is still supporting his sister who is in college. And Clarke won't let him go this time.

 

The cocktail cherry in her drink feels like a victory, a small trophy even, as it slowly sinks to the bottom of her glass, luminous red and almost obscene.

  
_Hard_ _liquor, darling, really?_   


Her mother’s condescending tone rings in her ears still, the barely concealed disappointment making heat spread over her neck. The implied embarrassment in not just her choice of drink but in her choice of lifestyle forces the glass up to her lips and the cool liquor down her throat in one long gulp. The room around her buzzes with polite chatter, expensive diamond jewellery glittering in candle light. She orders another whiskey sour from the bartender and tries to bite down her own disappointment in herself. She wishes she had the balls to stand up to her mother, to say no to these events, to say no to everything else, to not crave the relief that comes with gaining her approval. 

 

She fishes out the cocktail cherry from her fresh drink and slips it between her lips. She clings to this tiny rebellion, this small act of defiance as she plasters a wide smile on her face and straightens her back. She does her duty, she small talks, she schmoozes, she sings her mothers praises as her own diamonds glitter and the grip on her drink gets steadily tighter. She dodges the hard, but innocently asked questions by widening her smile even further and laughing out a well-rehearsed excuse. 

 

Her face hurts and her fingers are stiff when she sees him. It’s just a glimpse of dark eyes and dark curls, but her stomach drops and her smile falters in an instant. The crowd moves and blocks him from view, and by the time she can crane her neck past perfectly coiffed heads he is gone.

 

The lively chatter around her comes to a hush as her mother takes to the stage, to beg for money in a convoluted, socially acceptable manner. Normally she would pretend to be interested, even though she’s heard it all before, the carefully thought out jokes and the convincing pleas. But now she can hear nothing but the loud thump of her heartbeat in her ears, she can do nothing but let her eyes flit between every dark head of hair, between every tanned face in the crowd. He is gone, like a ghost, leaving heavy memories behind that reach out to her and cut into her breathing. 

 

She hasn’t thought about him in years, not really. She hasn’t allowed herself to go there. But now it’s like the dam has been broken, and everything she has struggled to keep buried comes rushing out, flooding her mind and tearing up trees by the roots in its destructive path. It comes to her in flashes, his hands on her, the feel of him inside her, his voice deep in her ear. His words hard and cutting, his eyes accusing and black with pain. His knuckles white as he tore at his own wild curls. Her own weak, faltering voice and her hollow excuses. Her fat, warm tears rolling down burning cheeks that she quickly had to shed on her own and then hide. 

 

_Where is your guts?_

His words echo in her ears and she can feel those heavy, accusing eyes on her, burning holes in her armour. When she looks up her eyes meet his from across the room and she almost drops the glass in her hand. He looks the same, though his jaw is clenched a little tighter than she remembers and his eyes are hard and cold. He’s got a champagne bottle in his hand, a formal white shirt and black bow tie on, and suddenly the jaw and the hard eyes make sense. She takes a step forward but the short shake of his head stops her in her tracks, eyes warning her off. 

 

She loses him after that, her mothers speech finished and the crowd surging towards the dining room. She desperately looks around, looks for an out, but just as she thinks she finds those curls again, Kane is by her side, guiding her towards their table. She barely manages to keep up a conversation as she pushes expensive dish after expensive dish around her plate. Her mouth goes completely dry as she spots him across the room, tending to the tables furthest away from her. 

 

“Still?” Kane leans in, eyebrows raised but the eyes underneath soft and understanding. 

 

“No, no, not still,” she rushes to say, tearing her eyes away from him and down to her plate, stabbing furiously at a cherry tomato.

 

The lie feels thick and bitter in her mouth. Kane pats her gently on the shoulder, and its more than she can take. The chair scrapes loudly against parquet, but if she turns heads she doesn’t notice. Tears blur her vision and her cheeks burn as she stalks though the house, looking for somewhere quiet to compose herself. 

 

As soon as she steps out on the dark back porch she knows she’s not alone. She quickly blinks her tears away, taking a deep breath as she waits for him to turn around. He’s smoking, which he only used to do when he was really stressed. He smoked a lot towards the end. She sees the muscles beneath his shirt tense and his head drop heavily against his chest, hears the deep sigh he lets out as he exhales thick smoke out into the warm night. 

 

“Too much?” 

 

He turns his head halfway towards her, and it’s not exactly an invitation but it’s not exactly a refusal either so she moves forward, the two of them facing the dark garden in uneasy companionship. 

 

“It’s always too much."

 

She folds her arms around her body, protecting herself, not against the chill because it is an unusually warm night, but from him and them and their history. 

 

“Yet you still go."

 

There is an accusation in there somewhere, somewhere in the slight bitter undertone to his voice, somewhere behind the easy neutrality of his expression. 

 

“Free food,” she shrugs, which they both know doesn’t begin to cover it, but he doesn’t push her. 

 

The silences stretches between them, drawing out memories of what happened between them, but also what never did. Sadness and anger vibrates off him in waves, and when he finishes his cigarette she thinks he’s going to turn around and go inside, but instead he stays. 

 

“How have you been anyways?"

 

There isn’t an answer she can come up with that will make things better for him so she decides on the truth. 

 

“Divorced."

 

She can’t help the frustrated little laugh that escapes her throat after. He turns to look at her then, dark eyes flickering over her face, eyebrows twitching slightly before he schools his expression into that blank mask again. 

 

“What happened?” 

 

There is tension in his voice like he is struggling to control it, like his question is anything but casual. He looks away from her like he doesn’t really want to hear the answer, like he just asked because that’s what you do, even if it will hurt you no matter what.

_You don’t love her. How can you?_

 

His words then burned into her skin, marked her beneath the surface like a tattoo made of invisible ink, branded her and ruined her for all others. How could she love when she was already used up? Except it was never made explicit between them, it was never vocalised, even in those desperate times when he could see he was losing her, and when all she wanted was confirmation. He was right, of course, still is, but it’s the one truth she can shield him from, the one thing she can make better. 

 

“It’s not important,” she sighs, dropping her head, swallowing down the words that threatened to escape.

_She accused me of not being able to let you go._

 

Guilt hangs over her like a storm cloud, darkening her heart and staining her cheeks. 

 

"You know, back then, I didn’t just lose you, I lost me.”

 

It’s not an excuse and its not an apology, but it is a significant piece of their truth.

 

“I was looking for confirmation in all the wrong places, and maybe I still am, but I felt like you gave me no other choice."

 

He scoffs at that, looking to the night sky as if it’d take his side. Its strange how time passes and changes, but yet some things it cannot change. It’s like they pressed a pause button halfway through a conversation and they are right back where they left off, running in circles after each other. 

“You left me. That was a choice.”

 

His voice is just as shaky as she remembers, just as pained, just as angry. His eyes are gleaming in the dim light from inside, just as they were all those years ago. He runs a fist through his hair in frustration, and its only the difference in setting and outfits that reminds her that this is not then.

 

“You know, I broke my own heart, loving you." 

 

It knocks the wind out of her, his confession, which he spits out like a piece of fruit gone bad. There it is, those words that she needed to hear but never dared ask for, the confirmation that would have made her stay, the truth she always held inside but could never quite believe. 

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

 

Why didn’t he stop her? Why did he let her go? Why didn’t he fight?

 

“You knew."

 

She lets out a shaky exhale, steadying herself against the patio railing. She cannot undo the past. She cannot undo what is already done. She can’t go back and unlisten to her mother, to unconvince herself she was making the right decision. She can’t unmarry Lexa, she can’t unbreak his heart. She can’t unmake a bad choice. 

 

“It’s ok,” he says quietly, eyes fixed to the ground. “I forgive you."

 

Its a particular kind of pain that hits you when you realise you are the villain in your own story, sharp and unforgiving, hopeless and all-consuming. 

 

“I’m not sure I forgive me."

 

They let regret fall and settle between them, a companion they have both gotten used to living with over the years. Inside the chatter is getting raucous, the mirth a stark contrast to the heavy silence that stretches between them. 

 

“Do you remember our first kiss?” 

 

She doesn’t know why those words come out of her mouth, but she has to say something to keep him there, to feel like this isn’t just the past repeating itself. 

 

“Yeah.” His voice is suddenly lighter, and now there is an actual smile even if he still won’t look at her. “I remember."

 

“What? Why are you laughing?"

 

“I just…,” he starts, dragging his words, jerking his head slightly and leaning hard on his hands against the railing. “I didn’t know how you felt about me. And you were my sister’s best friend, and if it didn’t work it was going to be really awkward. So I told myself I needed a sign."

 

“A sign?” She allows herself to laugh softly, lightly, to keep this fragile peace. 

 

“Yeah, a sign from above, you know,” he laughs, eyes flickering over her as he speaks. “That you wanted to kiss me too. So I told myself, do you remember that song they kept playing? That Latch song by Disclosure? Anyways, I told myself if that was the next song they played I’d go up to you and kiss you."

 

“And was it?"

 

“Nah, they played some David Guetta shit instead,” he laughs, relaxed and genuine, like she can barely even remember anymore. “Anyways, you kissed me."

 

She smiles at the memory, at hands running though her hair, at lips crashing against each other eagerly, at the deep sigh of content he let out as they ran out of adrenaline and just breathed each other in. 

 

“Yeah, well I wasn’t sure you wanted to kiss me either,” she smiles, biting her lip.

 

“Yeah?"

 

“Yeah, so I told myself I needed a sign, you know, from above."

 

His smile is wide and she had no idea how much she had missed it until she realised how long it’s been since she saw him smile like that. 

 

“So I told myself if the next song they played was David Guetta then I’d go up to you and kiss you."

 

“Oh, really?”  

 

He meets her eyes finally, quickly wetting his lips as his smile slowly fades to a grin, the memory sinking and settling. They hang on her like anchors dragging her down to the bottom of the sea, and even though she knows this is not then, she also knows she’ll never escape this. 

 

“No, not really. Do you want to know why I kissed you?” His smile fades to a thin line as he waits for her to finish, to conclude.

 

“I kissed you because I had to. I couldn’t not kiss you. I had no choice. You talk about choices, but maybe sometimes life chooses for you."

 

He turns and she is pulled towards him like a magnet, dropping her hands to her sides with a huff of helplessness. It’s inevitable, like it always was between them, a gravitational pull neither could explain nor fight. It was never a choice, but this unspoken truth that they couldn’t escape, and could never put words to. 

 

His hand is warm in hers, soft but rough, heavy and familiar. His eyes flicker down to her lips and back up to her eyes, and its like a kaleidoscope of memories coming back to her in flashes, the good ones making the bad seem better, the bad ones making the good seem tragically romantic. Behind her the noise from the party fades and all she can hear is his heavy breathing falling into the rhythm of her own heart. 

 

“I can’t not,” he mutters quietly, almost to himself. 

 

When his lips meet hers a storm rises beneath her skin, clinging to the gusts of his wind, drowning in the waves of his ocean, simmering in the current of his electric lightning. His hands burn her neck as they pull her close, his nails cut her spine as they travel down, his smile breaks them apart when it makes teeth clash and clatter. 

 

“If this isn’t a choice, I still want to end up with you."

 

* * *

 

_I love you._

_Why are you crying?_

_Because isn’t this where you leave me?_

_No, this is where I stay._

 

 

 

 


	6. Get Up, Stand Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bellarke as Japril. 
> 
> If you don't know the infamous Japril wedding interruption please take a moment to check it [out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NuX1gdkrfY0) . It is truly epic.

There is a rush and a gasp as the barn doors open, heads turning and eyes watering. Her blonde hair is braided loosely around her head, her eyes impossibly bright and blue and her smile is wide and relaxed. He can’t stop tug at the corners of his mouth as she walks down the aisle, arm firmly clutched in her stepdad’s. Her dress is pure white and rustles against her legs as she walks slowly towards him. She is radiant, elated and his heart skips a beat when she passes him in the pew and continues down towards the arbor where Lexa waits for her.

He is happy for her, he swears. He swears to Gina, he swears to Clarke, he even swears to Lexa. But mostly he swears to himself. Bellamy Blake is happy for Clarke, happy she has moved on, happy that she is happy, he swears. He swears.

He shoots Gina a quick glance, and he gets the sunniest, most beautiful smile in return; one that speaks of contentment and security and maybe even love. It’s a smile Clarke once gave him, when things were different, easier, clearer. It’s a smile he wishes he could return.

There is a sudden hush over the congregation as the minister begins talking about commitment and promises and love. His sister smiles brightly at Lincoln in her long, pink bridesmaids' dress, clutching Clarke's bouquet tightly. Raven catches Abby’s eyes and scrunches her nose at her, both visibly moved. Harper throws Monty a secretive smile as the minister continues talking, and when his eyes fall to rest on Clarke’s hands in Lexa’s he has to look away.

“…the strength to commit their love to one another, unshakeable in any storm…"

The words register and fall, like stones in his stomach. He sees blonde hair tangled up on the pillow next to him, he sees blue eyes filled with worry over dates and what ifs, he sees the happy relief etched on her face as she reads out the words not pregnant and he sees himself get up and walk away. Maybe this was a sign, you know, that we should stop?

“…unbreakable in the face of any stress…"

He sees unbridled pain in her eyes as he tells her he slept with Gina, he sees happy tears slide down her face as she clutches brown curls and a ring box after the extravagant proposal, he sees the raw panic in her face as she punches him in the chest for getting himself nearly killed doing his job. I want you.

“… a promise we simply refuse to break…"

He sees the anguish on her face as she offers him everything he’s ever wanted, sees the devastation as he reminds her it’s too late. He sees their whole history laid out before him, every bad decision, every mistake, every broken promise. Then he remembers, the promise he made to his mother as she lay dying in the hospital. The final words of wisdom she had for him, the words she burned into him with her eyes. If you love someone, you tell them.

She told him like she had wasted her life on that mistake. Like it still haunted her in her final hours. She told him like it was her biggest regret to not have heeded her own words. If you love someone, you tell them, she said, clutching his hand with surprising strength. Even if you’re scared that it’s not the right thing. Even if you’re scared that it’ll cause problems. Even if you’re scared that it will burn your life to the ground, you say it, and you say it loud and you go from there. Promise me. Her eyes had scared him, he had been too young to know that the darkness in them was from the fierceness of fighting for her love and not from the regret of losing it.

He sighs deeply as the memory flashes before him, as the promise burns a hole in his chest. Beside him Gina squeezes his knee but he can’t even turn to look at her.

"Will you promise to support and love their marriage?"

The whole room agrees in muddled voices, Gina’s voice clear and bright in his ear. He tries to form his mouth around the words I will, but he falters. He finds himself unable to make that promise, when it conflicts so starkly with the one he already made with his mother.

“I’m sorry,” he manages to mumble to Gina before he lets his brain shut down and his heart take over.

He feels heads turn and confusion rise as he stands up, bringing the minister to a halt mid-sentence. She turns, blue eyes wide and confused. Lexa turns too, more annoyed than surprised. The whole room turns towards him, expectantly, and he hesitates, unable to form any words at all. For a beat it’s embarrassing, and then doubt seeps in. All the what ifs flood his mind and he sits back down. Gina gives him a look of utter confusion, which is soon followed by horror but he is too far gone down his own path of destruction to even begin to help fix hers.

What happens next is not a choice, its not even conscious thought. The minister starts talking again, and he’s back on his feet, his own voice loud and clear as he strikes a match and holds it up to his entire existence.

“I love you, Clarke."

There is another collective gasp in the room and he feels a thousand pairs of eyes burning into him, burning holes in his confession, but all he can see is her. He sees her turn, her blue eyes wide and open and he knows he’d burn his life to the ground for those.

“I love everything about you, even the things I don’t like I love, and I want you with me."

It might not be the right thing, and it will definitely cause problems. But its not choice, its compulsion. It’s to have and to hold, and he wants to be the one doing the having and holding, for as long as they both shall live.

“I love you, and I think you love me too."

She is frozen in place, mouth slack and breathing constricted. He can see her chest heave from where he’s standing, collarbone protruding as she inhales sharply.

“Do you?"

He sees her mind turn, her eyes soften and her eyelashes flutter and he is suspended in time until she can unfreeze him, one way or another.

They always did things the wrong way around, falling into bed with each other almost as if by accident and falling into something that might have been love before they’d even been on a date. He’d actually proposed, promising her a big wedding, a huge house and a yard for their unborn and unconfirmed child before he’d even told her how he felt. He’d gotten up and left when she’d been relieved it wasn’t actually happening. He’d let her push him into taking Gina as a date to her mother’s wedding as some sort of buffer between them, but hadn’t been prepared for the tears that fell from her cheeks when he’d told her it had worked a little better than either of them had imagined. He’d helped her fix things with Lexa when she’d gotten in her own way, pushed her back to her when his brush with death had her questioning everything. He hadn’t been nice about it either, he’d pushed her away so hard because he’d been afraid she’d break his heart all over again. And things hadn’t been right between them since, and probably never would be again after this. Unless.

He sees the moment she makes her decision. Her eyes never leave his, they just harden slightly, then soften again. She’s at his side in a rush of white and pink and blue, grabbing his hand and tugging him down the aisle. His heart hasn’t left his throat since he got up but now it thumps loudly in his ears, blood surging through his veins. Her hand is steady in his, her eyes electric and buzzing and her smile so wide that he nearly looses his footing as they rush out of the barn.

Finally, its just her and him, alone in his car, riding high on adrenaline. She falters for a moment, battling her own conscience, letting the magnitude of what they just did sink in. It’s not just a reunion, he knows. It’s also two broken hearts and assurances that now ring hollow in their ears. She takes a deep breath, and when she looks back at him he knows she’s willing to burn her life to the ground for him too.

The air is thick between them, heavy and full of promise. Her eyes sparkle when she looks up at him, jaw set in determination. There is a moment, a pause, an electric current running between them as anticipation builds and he can already feel her on his skin. When she finally surges forward, capturing his lips in hers, the current tingles and sparkles, setting every hair on his body on edge. It is breathless and desperate, the urge to let their lips say every word they have kept silent all these months manifesting in a messy, consuming kiss. Her hands fly to his neck, pulling him down towards her, pulling herself closer. After all this time, they pour every feeling into this kiss, apologising, reacquainting, confirming.

When she pulls back her eyes are dark and her lips raw.

“Drive the car”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This would've probably been even sweeter with Finn as the one getting ditched at the altar, but to me Lexa is a far more significant relationship to Clarke, so for dramatic effect it worked better for me like this.


	7. Catching Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - Day 1
> 
> The moment you started shipping them

_Once you stop chasing the wrong things, the right things will catch you._

 

* * *

 

The air is hot and humid and makes her hair stick to her skin, makes her whole body flush with heat. There is a tightly sprung coil in her stomach which hardens with each passing minute they can’t find Jasper. She _needs_ to get to him, fast. She _needs_ to rescue him, like Finn said. But it’s not because she couldn’t save her dad. She needs to rescue him because he is her people. He is her responsibility. He is her choice, they’re all her choice. 

 

She learned a long time ago that while she was free to make her own choices, she was never free from the consequences of making them. She can’t hide from the consequence that the guilt eats at her with every small droplet of blood Finn finds, with every broken branch that speak to a struggle. She can’t help the way his bloodcurdling scream still echoes in her ears. She can’t stop Monty’s pleading eyes from weighing her down. 

 

Behind her she hears Bellamy mutter something to Wells and a fresh wave of anger rolls over her, red and hot. Jasper is still alive, she _knows_. If Bellamy didn’t have a gun there’s no way he or his stupid, arrogant smirk would be anywhere near her right now. They don’t have time for this, for his snarky comments or his goddamn pissing contests. Jasper may have survived the spear in his chest, but with the alarming amount of blood they have found, she can’t help the sinking feeling that time is running out. She doesn’t mention the fact that the blood trail is getting less and less hard to spot as they carry on walking. 

 

Finn seems to sense the urgency building in her so they wordlessly pick up speed, and she ignores the way her breath tightens in the wet heat. For a while Finn seems to lose the track, and she tries not to let the panic rise in her throat. She barely hears what the others say, but she hears the snap in all their voices, the measuring of strength, the weighing of potential threat. She’d laugh at the obvious fog of testosterone hanging in the air, but it’s been a while since they found any blood and they don’t have the time. _Jasper_ doesn’t have the time. 

 

She’s about to turn around and put them all in their places, to unleash her frustration and wipe that smug look of Bellamy’s face once and for all, when Finn finds the track again. The blood on the stones below them is bright red and fresh, and Finn gives her one of those looks where it seems like he is thinking exactly what she is. They are close. Danger is close. 

 

A strangled moan cuts through the air and adrenaline spikes her brain. _Jasper._ She rushes forward, her body choosing fight over flight automatically. When they find him, he is barely alive, strung up into a tree, fresh markings carved into his torso. She runs on instinct, her brain running a mile a minute and her body on autopilot. 

 

When the ground disappears beneath her, time stops. She is in free fall, her stomach dropping and her body tingling and she doesn’t really register the danger below until a strong arm grabs her just in time. Her breath is knocked out of her as she notices the many sharpened wooden stakes just inches from her feet. She looks up at the mess of dark curls in sharp contrast to the blue sky above her. _Bellamy?_  


She doesn’t have time to think, he struggles to find his footing, and she digs her fingers into his arm to hold on tighter. She meets his eyes and for a moment something dark flashes over them. Something that tells her she’s not safe in his grasp. Something that says maybe he can have all he wants if he just pretends to lose his grip.

 

A small gasp escapes her throat, chills running down her spine, but he holds her gaze, decides. His fingers close tightly around her arm, fingers strong like a vice. Muffled voices clamour behind him but he keeps her firmly in his sights and she clings on to his arm as his muscles strain and tighten under her grip. Slowly she feels him pull her upwards, her muscles shaking with the strain. Suddenly there are more hands and more help and together they all pull her up to safety. 

 

Finn helps her to her feet, breathless and worried and soft, and she still doesn’t know what happened but when she meets Bellamy’s eyes she knows he saved her life. She just can’t figure out why. She quickly averts her gaze, focusing back on the task at hand, on Jasper, on who laid the trap for them, on survival. She hears Finn order Wells to keep an eye on Bellamy, the implication clear in his words. If given the chance, he’d hurt her, maybe even kill her. Except he had been given a chance, and he’d saved her instead. 

 

She risks another glance at him, and his gaze is still on her, dark and hard. His mouth twitches slightly as if to say something, but he keeps quiet. She has a feeling that if she said thank you now it might be the wrong thing to say. He grabbed her by instinct, but he held on by choice and there is a heavy sort of realisation in that for them both. They both pant hard, the physical exertion and the adrenaline wearing down, leaving only the new realisation that maybe there is more between them than either is willing to admit. That the hostility between them is merely the start of something.  That maybe they are in this together after all.

 

There is a rustle and a rush, and suddenly her adrenaline spikes again. The gunshots ring loudly in her ears as the mangled beast lets out a final, pained exhale and comes to a rest just inches from her feet. Her body is shaking, every last nerve frazzled as she looks to Wells, gun foreign in his hand. 

 

“ _Now_ she sees you,” Bellamy huffs, familiar disdain back in his voice. 

 

But this time she can’t blanch at his arrogance or huff at his smugness, because there is a catch in his voice she doesn’t know what to do with. There is the smallest hitch that makes her think he wasn’t talking about Wells at all. 

 

Her shoulders stay high and tense all the way back to camp, Jaspers moans punctuating the heavy silence between them. She doesn’t let them drop until she’s alone in her tent, protected by darkness and the heavy breathing of eighty odd sleeping teenagers in the camp around her. She has a feeling something has shifted, and it unnerves her. It’s not that she’s just grateful to him for saving her life, although she is that too. She finds it hard to pin down what she’s really feeling, other than the emptiness that follows after an adrenaline rush and the slight wonder and embarrassment of having discovered you’re wrong about something you knew for certain.

 

She runs her hand over the finger shaped bruises that have started to form on her arm, rolls her aching shoulder slightly. She relaxes into the makeshift mattress, lets her breathing slow and falls asleep almost instantly. 


	8. You Put Your Arms Around Me And I’m Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - Day 2: Hug(s)
> 
> All the Bellarke hugs from Bellamy's POV + a bonus

 

_One._

His breath is knocked out of him, forced out by the clash of a body against his. He is confused and bone tired but all it takes is a flash of blonde and his brain catches up. Surprisingly strong arms wrap around his neck and for a moment he’s frozen in time, shocked by the intimacy. No one hugs him like this, no one forces themselves into his personal space like this, except for his sister. And before that, his mother.

 

It’s foreign and familiar at the same time, the way her arms pull him close, like she was afraid she’d lost him. The way her grip tightens, like she can’t get close enough. The way her arms are hard and sure, like if she let go she might lose him still. It’s only when he has it again he realises how much he’s missed this, craved it even. To be held close, like it’s unconditional. To be held close, like it’s the only thing that can hold the world together.

 

It makes him wrap his own arms around her, finally. It makes him press his cheek to hers and bury his face in her hair and breathe her in. The air tastes like copper and bile, but she is warm and soft and everything the world outside isn’t. His muscles ache and the wounds on his face and body sting against the bitter air, but knowing that there is also tenderness and soft touch left down here makes him hold on tighter. 

 

It’s relief that propelled her forward and into his arms, but it’s hope that has them clinging on. If they can go from enemies to this, then there is still something left in this world to save. She smells like antiseptic and smoke and wood, she smells like fight. Her grip is strong and sure, and when she pulls back he knows he’s home. 

 

 

_Two._

 

His breath hitches, stopped in its path by her revelation. He is confused, but not for long. He hopes he is mistaken, but he isn’t. He hopes he can persuade her, but he can’t. He is bone tired and broken, but she is worse. He sees her pull down the weight of the world on her shoulders, sees her determination to bear it alone and he is shocked by his inadequacy to help.

 

Soft lips brush against his cheek, burning him with regret. She whispers into his neck, her voice breaking right along with his heart. Her arms come up around his neck, holding him close, but keeping him at a distance. Her arms are soft and already gone, holding him carefully as if clutching him any tighter might change her mind. As if closeness isn’t something she deserves.

 

He tangles his hands into her hair, watching it slip through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. His cheek is wet and cold against hers, and his throat tightens and chars. The air smells of rotting flesh and falling leaves as she pushes back from him, barely able to look him in the eye. The tears that run slowly down her cheek clear a trail of grime down her face, but they can’t wash away her sins. 

 

Guilt tears her away from him, leaving him with a burden he never wanted and one she never wanted to give. He lets her walk away because it is the only thing he can do to help her, even if it means burying himself in the guilt she is trying to escape. His cheek is scarred and raw from her lips, but the wound is invisible to the world. He straightens his shoulders and walks through the gates to his people, to his home, but it feels hollow and empty now that she’s gone. 

 

 

_Three._

His breath comes out in huffs, releasing his anger like a pressure valve. He confuses concern with condescension, refuses to accept the olive branch she is offering. He is bone tired and running on guilt and pain alone. He wishes he could tear down the walls between them and build the world from scratch, without the pain, the guilt and the anger. 

 

She stands silently next to him, her presence alone saying more than words ever could. He relents, because she always exposes him, leaves him defenceless without even trying. Her arms pull him in, persuade him, tears down walls. She holds onto him like she can push all his broken pieces back together, like she can turn back time and erase mistakes and unsay all the things that drove them apart. She holds him tightly, unconditionally, hopefully.

 

He sinks into her, hands clutching and arms wrapping. His eyes sting but his breathing eases, like something heavy has been lifted from his chest. The air tastes of salt and pine, the ghost of a memory brushing past and reminding him of how much has passed between them. The world stops spinning for a moment, and he sighs deeply into her hair with how right it all feels for the first time in a long time. 

 

They cling to each other because they both need it, both need to be put back together by the other. She smells like exotic oils and candles, but she feels like hope. She holds him tight like she never means to let go, and even though they are a far way from home, it feels like a start. 

 

 

_Four._

His breathing is heavy, circulating back and forth between them. Confusion is replaced by want, which replaced in turn by need. He’s bone tired but he can’t feel it, coming alive under roving hands and eager lips. She wraps one arm around his neck and the other around his waist but he can’t bring himself to be shocked by the intimacy. It always felt like an inevitability, her and him together like this. 

 

Her lips are soft against his, her tongue hot and wet and devastating. She whispers into his skin, but the words loose their meaning under the heat of her breath and the soft moans that punctuate each vowel. She latches on to him like she has always wanted it like this, like she has always wanted it as much as he has. She latches on to him like they’re the last two people on earth, and they might as well be. 

 

He pulls her close and up, so she can wrap her legs around him too, so they can get rid of any remaining space between them. He pulls at her hair hoping he can get her to moan louder, which she does. The air smells like skin and sweat and she is warm and soft and everything the outside world isn’t. His whole body aches for her, craves her, needs her and it makes him hold on tighter.

 

She is the one that started this, but it’s him who finishes it. She tastes heavy and sweet and like nothing he ever imagined, nothing he could ever give up. She tastes like she is the one that ends worlds, not saves them, and she smells like home. She _is_ home. And finally, so is he.


	9. Blame Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - Day 3: A Scene that crippled me emotionally
> 
> 3x05 reunion cause I hate myself and I'll never get over this scene

It’s the last thing he needs, being confronted with her here, now, like this. He mentally curses Octavia for springing this on him, but here she is, bright blue eyes filled with disbelief and confusion, and he can take it from almost everyone but not her. She is the one that was supposed to bear it all with him, to weather blizzards and pain together and never let him face anything alone.

 

Yet here they are, strangers to each other, a gulf between them forged by disappointment and rejection and abandonment. The pain is sharp and fresh like she just walked away yesterday, like she just turned away from him this morning. 

 

"We need to talk,” she says, like she’s come to fix everything, like she’s come to fix _him_.

 

Anger flashes hot, burning his cheeks and setting his heart drumming furiously. Everything is always on her terms, even this, even when she’s already taken herself out of the equation. 

 

_The mighty Wanheda._

Venom drips off his tongue as he spits her nickname out, as he lines up his shot and takes it without blinking. 

 

“I came to tell you it’s over."

 

Her voice is even, but insistent, with that same cocksure attitude she’s always had that she’s right. It reminds him of how they were when they landed, of why they bristled against each other in the first place. It’s that same haughty condescension that instantly rubbed him the wrong way he sees in her face now. 

 

“We did our part."

 

  
_We._ He knows exactly who the other half of that togetherness is, which partnership she is referring to and it’s like salt to his fresh wounds knowing that the other half used to be him. It’s not anymore, she is making that abundantly clear.

 

“Lexa and I…” she starts, but falters before she can tell him how the two of them have it all figured out without him, how irrelevant he is in this scenario.

 

Instead she tells him how he is wrong, how he’s messed it up, how he’s ruined everything, which he has no patience for. Kane and O and Lincoln have been telling him the same for weeks, but they weren’t the ones who had to peel Roma off the spear that made a hole as big as his fist in her chest. They weren’t the ones who held Monroe’s spasming, gasping body until it stilled. They weren’t the ones who had to wade through a mess hall full of melting bodies, some too small to bear remembering. They aren't the ones with lungs still stinging from the acrid smoke of Mount Weather, nothing left but ashes and dust and a fading memory of a beautiful smile. 

 

“Why are you here, Clarke?"

 

“Arkadia needs to make things right.” Arkadia meaning him, he supposes. “Or Lexa and the 12 clans will wipe us out."

 

He scoffs, dismissing her.

_Let them try._

 

It’s not like it’s news to him that the Grounders would retaliate -  _jus drain jus daun_ , after all. It only proves his point that this coalition was a pipe dream from the start, that she is blinded by whatever it is she feels for the Commander. Lexa, Trikru, Azgeda - all of them only know one thing - violence, war and bloodshed. The only difference now is that Pike is refusing to lie down and wait for the inevitable. 

 

“This isn’t who you are."

 

It wouldn’t hurt as much if she didn’t know him as well as she does. It wouldn’t hurt like this if she hadn’t held up a mirror to him and showed him a hero. She can’t see that he is still as he always was. 

 

“This is who I’ve always been."

 

Protecting his people is all he’s ever known, it’s only the parameters that have changed along the way. This is no different. 

 

“Bellamy, I need you,"

 

Her word slash into him, cutting him to the bone. He can’t trust her words anymore, can’t believe what she says when it’s in such stark contrast with her actions. Her stone cold glare and her blank dismissal in Polis still lies in the pit of his stomach like a lump of ice that refuses to melt. 

 

“You need me? You _left_ me."

 

She left him to deal with what they had done alone, when the only thing that could have helped him was her. She turned her back on him when he had sacrificed Gina’s safety for hers. She’d left everything they had built together with blood and sacrifice, she’d abandoned all they had fought for tooth and nail, she’d destroyed _them_ without blinking an eye.

 

“You left everyone."

 

Anger swells and blooms, hurt bubbling like lava underneath. She has no idea how worthless she made him feel, still makes him feel. She built him up, put him on a pedestal, then tore him down like it was nothing, turned from him like he didn’t matter. Like he always thought he didn’t matter. 

 

He can taste the bile on his tongue, feels the adrenaline pump his rage around faster, harder. And then he spews out everything he’s held over her head all this time, everything he can think of to hurt her, anything that will leave a scar. Because, damn it, why should he be the only one feeling like this?

 

And then once the words leave, once he can’t take them back, it’s like the lump of ice in his stomach finally melts, sobering him. The air huffs out of him and tears sting in his eyes. She is lost for words, gasping at them, eyes pained and wet. He knows he hit his mark but there is no triumph in this. It doesn’t make him more right or her more wrong. It just makes them both less than before. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and he hates that he’s the one who put the wobble in her voice.

 

Accusations fill the air between them, and the prickling realisation that they have the power to hurt each other like this. He feels weighted down, like the burden of her tears are heavier than the responsibility of the world he’s already carrying on his shoulders. Anger dissipates, fading from his cheeks, loosening his clenched fists. 

 

“I’m sorry I left, but I knew I could because they had _you_."

 

His heart drops, guilt pricking his neck. It’s hard enough as it is to rationalise his principles to the others, to make them understand that he’s doing the best he can for them. It’s impossible to defend them to her, when one look from her tells him his best isn’t good enough. 

 

He swallows hard on the realisation that no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be better than she can make him. He’ll never be the hero in any story other than hers. 

 

He drops to his knees, taking her hand gently to make up for the harshness of his words. Her skin is soft and warm and he knows he can’t let her go again. The way she has this blind faith in him, despite everything, is what makes her weak, what puts her in danger. She has too much faith in people who don’t deserve it. Even if she thinks she can trust Lexa to keep her safe, he can’t. 

 

“I know we can fix it,” she says softly, small smile on her lips. 

 

It’s so rare, her smile, even the small ones. He hates that he has to wipe it off her face.

 

The metal clangs against the table, handcuffs softly clicking shut around her wrist. He has to look away before he sees the smile fall from her mouth. 

 

 


	10. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - day 4: smut
> 
> Clarke is hot. Bellamy knows how to cool her down.   
> Ice play.

The air is still and oppressive, thick with the midday heat. It’s hard to breathe, to think straight when it gets like this. Outside the wide open windows the city below is uncharacteristically quiet, like the whole world is trying to move as little as possible.

“How’s your head?” he drawls, sliding down on the sofa next to her, ice cubes clinking softly in his glass.

“How’s the air conditioning?” she snaps back, too hazed to even turn her head to give him a chastising look.

He chuckles softly, patting her gently on the leg. The air con has been out of commission for less than a day, but it’s already more than she can bear. She’s not built for extreme heat, her skin is flushed and sticky, and she’s _this_ _close_ to cutting all her hair off.

He seems mostly unaffected, almost cheerfully going about his normal routine of studying and working on his thesis, his only concession to the rising temperatures is abandoning his t-shirt and dropping chunks of ice into his water glass.

Normally she’d perk up at the sight of bare skin, but instead she’s hopelessly sprawled out on the sofa, burning up in only a loose tank top and panties.

“You’re too hot,” she complains when his hand grows warmer against her skin.The man is like a damned furnace, which she’s come to appreciate in the winter months, but the way his body pulsates with heat is overwhelming to her senses most of the time, practically unbearable right now.

“Too hot, eh?”

She can hear the smirk in his voice but she refuses to rise to the bait, she’d much rather wallow in her own discomfort. He doesn’t back down though, leaving his hand in place, slowly letting it glide up her thigh.

“ _Bell_...” she warns, squirming in her seat as his hand travels dangerously high.

“ _Babe_...” he argues, like he’s already winning, cause he knows that name weakens her defences.

He abandons his glass on the coffee table and lets his fingers slip under the hem of her tank top. She hisses loudly as his fingers brush against her heated skin, his fingers cool from the glass. Her body arches involuntarily off the couch, goosebumps erupting in the trail of his touch. A breathless moan slips out as the cold spreads across her skin, a mixture of relief and tension flashing over her.

“That feel good, Princess?”

There is wonder in his voice, but also a new, deep rumble she knows too well. There is a promise in there, a flash of memories running through her mind of roving hands, exploring tongues and punishing teeth and the shiver that courses through her has nothing to do with the change in temperature.

She nods furiously, words escaping her for a moment. He leans over and fishes an ice cube out of his glass and pops it in his mouth, eyes resting heavily on her. He runs his fingers down her sternum slowly, the cold biting her skin almost painfully.

“Aah, _fuck_ …” she moans as he leans in and sucks gently against the pulse point in her neck, his mouth wet and cold against her overheated skin. Water trickles down her neck and chest, cool rivers extinguishing old embers and igniting new fires, slowly soaking her tank top.

He drops his head, slowly trailing the tip of his icy tongue along her collarbone and down between her breasts, her skin protesting against the sensory assault, hardening under him. The cold on her skin fights the heat inside her, making her buck against him.

“Gotta hold still, babe,” he mumbles against her breast, his hot breath on top of the cold, wet trail making her gasp and her eyelashes flutter.

“I can’t,” she breathes softly, barely managing to conceal the whine in her voice.

His eyes flash darkly, closing briefly while his jaw clenches, as if to control himself. He moves off the couch and rests on his knees between her legs, his cold hand leaving goosebumps in its trail over her thigh, his warm hand shooting sparks of electricity over her skin.

“I’m gonna cool you down, sweetheart, you just gotta let me take care of you,” he soothes, eyes roaming up her body in a way that makes her mouth dry.

She squirms under his gaze, the heat of it as unbearable as the mid-summer swelter. He leans back on his heels, fishing out another ice cube from his glass.

“Ok?” he asks, the ice already melting under the warmth of his fingers. She watches the drops of water swell and trickle down his hand, down his forearm, then peak and fall from his elbow.

“Ok,” she agrees, leaning forward to trace the cool trail down his arm, catching the drops on his elbow with her tongue. His sharp inhale lets her know he’s as affected as her, as high on her as she is on him.

When she comes back up he slides the ice cube into her mouth, thumb lingering on her bottom lip as a promise of things to come. He leans forward, cool fingers tracing down her neck and hot mouth on hers. The ice clatters against their teeth, rolls between their tongues, slowly melting under their combined heat.

Wet heat pools between her legs, but it’s a welcome heat, the kind that she wants to last. It’s the kind that makes her hyper aware yet helps the corners of her mind soften and relax. It’s the kind of heat that makes her want to stop time and stay in the same place forever. It’s the kind of heat only he can bring out in her.

He steals the ice cube from her mouth as he pulls back, slipping it out of his mouth with a wet pop and a heavy gaze, and damn him if he’s not capable of unraveling her by just looking at her that way.

“Stay still for me this time, ok babe?"

She moans loudly as he traces the ice along the edge of her tank top, water flowing down the contours of her body. She forces herself to stay still as he moves the ice over the swell of her breast, running slow circles over her nipple. She can feel herself stiffen under the fabric of her top, sees the ice melting around the hard peak, hears his breathing slow and deepen.

The ice disappears past his lips again as he pulls down her top to take her into his mouth, the warm softness of his tongue fighting the hard chill of the ice. She grasps at the couch beneath her but can’t find purchase, running her hands into his wild curls instead, nails scraping his scalp.

“Oh _shit_ ,” she cries out as teeth graze her sensitive flesh, head thrown back and her hands punishing in his hair. She can’t help the way her body arches into him, hips grinding and begging for friction.

“ _Babe_ ,” he warns, pulling back and swallowing the last of the ice cube. She watches as his adams apple bobs up and down his throat, swallows hard as she catches the look on his face. He looks as wrecked as she feels, face flushed and eyes hooded.

“Let me take care of you, ok?"

His words only serve to build more pressure inside her, and she grows desperate against him, tries to pull him closer with her legs.

“Please Bell, I need _more_."

He chuckles darkly but pulls back, even if she can feel him hard between them.

“I’ll give you what you need, ok babe? Just gotta be patient."

She huffs in frustration, slackening her grip around him but arching her chest towards him cause fuck him and his teasing, that’s why. His eyelids flutter and his smirk drops as he rests his eyes on the hardened peaks under her shirt.

“Now let me get a look at those gorgeous tits, ok?” he says reverently, pulling her tank top over her head and sighing contentedly as she is bared to him.

He leans back, fishing out another ice cube and she feels a shiver run through her in anticipation, feels heat soak her from the inside. He spends his time running the ice cube over her other nipple, melting it over her fire, lapping up the small streams of water that run down her body. The combination of the ice stinging her overheated skin and the warmth growing from the inside leaves her fevered and ever more frantic, his heavy hand on her hip the only thing keeping her from bucking off the couch.

“ _Bell_ , _Bell_ , _Bell_..” she chants, breathlessly, like a prayer that will eventually deliver her from this torturous electricity.

As if her prayers are answered he moves down her stomach, following a trail of ice water down to the edge of her panties, tongue searing hot against the cold. He lets the ice cube follow the trail, slowly, agonisingly.

“So beautiful,” he murmurs, as he sits up to look at her face, her wrecked, flushed face.

He lets the ice cube trail along the edge of her panties, then lifts the elastic slightly to trace the bare skin under and it’s getting harder and harder for her to keep still. She gasps for air as he moves the ice over her panties, following the bumps and grooves of her slit, a cold shock against her heat.

“ _Fuck_ , babe, that feels.. that feels..” She chokes on her own words, descending into an indecent moan.

“Feels like what?” he breathes, voice strained and thick with lust but keeping the ice trailing over her, keeping her suspended.

“That f-feels insane,” she stutters, unable to keep her voice even under his relentless attentions.

“Insane good? Or insane bad?”

There is a lilt to his voice and a pause in his movement that tells her he’s going to drag the words out of her slowly, but she’s already wound up tight, already teetering on the edge and she won’t give him the satisfaction.

“Fucking insanely amazing, Bell, get on with it, _fuck_!"

“Yes, Princess."

He swallows his chuckle by clamping down on his bottom lip, but he hooks his thumbs into her panties, lifts her hips and rolls them down her legs without hesitation after popping the ice cube back into his mouth.

She expects him to start on the buttons on his shorts, but he leans back instead, plunging his fingers into the cold glass of water. She starts to lean forward to help, but he places a gentle hand on her stomach, pushing her back down. Instead he picks up her leg and places her ankle on his shoulder, eyes locking her in place.

She feels heavy under his gaze, hot and cold, hardened into a tight coil. He runs his mouth down her leg, hard ice and soft tongue inching down towards her heat.

“ _Please_ , Bell,” she sighs, pulling him closer with her leg, latching on to his hair to ground him to her.

Finally, his fingers find her, ice cold from the water, sliding down and tracing her entrance. She tilts up towards him, throwing her head back as he slips two into her, the cold sharp against her warmth. His mouth finds her clit, tongue rolling the ice over her and the sensation is agonisingly gratifying.

He moves over her, hitting all the familiar spots, driving her closer and closer to her conclusion. She pushes him away and pulls him close again in waves with her legs hooked over his shoulders, rising and falling against his tongue. Her fingers twist and pull in his hair and all she can hear is her staggered breath and the slick sounds of his lips on her.

She comes crashing down as her heat thaws his fingers and as the last of the ice melts on her, crying out an incoherent curse. He pulls out, slowly licking his fingers clean, watching her closely as she shudders under him.

“How’s that head now, babe?”

He looks slightly drunk, eyes glazed, hair messy but his smile is happy, and fuck if this isn’t her favourite version of him.

“You’re still fixing the air-conditioning,” she smiles, but there is no bite to her words any more.

The air is still but less oppressive, her body lighter and her mind clear. He wraps his arms around her and pulls her into his lap, and his searing heat doesn’t bother her anymore. She snuggles closer, burying her ear against the calm of his heartbeat, running idle fingers over the ridges of his torso.

“You need help cooling down too, babe?"

 


	11. Talk Nerdy To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - Day 6: Fluff
> 
> "I was on my balcony and you loudly started quoting Romeo & Juliet to me"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I wrote honest-to-god fluff. Me. Fluff. I'm still processing that myself.

  
The music thumps loudly in her ears as she weaves her way through the crowd, slightly unsteady on her feet. She’s buzzing with energy, still swaying to the beat, wide grin plastered on her face. It’s almost summer, exams are almost over, she is surrounded by her friends, and the air is thick with possibility.

Jasper pulls her in to a tight hug, incoherently gushing into her ear, thanking her for the introduction. His eyes gleam when he pulls back, staring at Maya with no inhibition, no filter. Somewhere in a quiet corner Monty is in deep conversation with Harper, his head shaking a little with intensity, utterly oblivious to the throng of sweating bodies dancing away just inches away.

She pulls the hair away from her sweaty neck and into a messy bun on the top of her head, stumbling slightly onto the balcony where the cool breeze settles the buzz into a low hum. Luna and Raven are already there, welcoming her with sloppy hugs and warm beers and lopsided smiles. She loves her roommates, loves her life, loves this party. It’s been years since she felt this happy.

She leans over the balcony railing, closing her eyes as she lets the air cool her body and sharpen her mind, smile permanently fixed on her face. The air smells like lilacs and smoke and grass, like freedom and hope. Below, the street is humming with activity, excited chatter from other party goers filtering up through the backdrop of the deep bass from inside. The whole world is high it seems, thrumming with the heady promise of summer.

_"But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?”_

A deep, raspy voice cuts through the hum, forcing her eyes open. On the pavement two stories down is a group of guys all looking up at her, but she can’t tell who the voice belongs to.

"It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” he continues, the owner of that heavy bass.

He is a mess of wild, dark curls and wet, wide eyes. He smiles an easy smile but it lights him up from the inside, and he’s glowing in the yellow streetlight. He looks up at her expectantly, a quiet challenge gleaming in his dark eyes.

“It’s Clarke, actually,” she smiles, as Luna and Raven peak over the bannister to see what all the commotion is.

The smile she gets in return is even brighter than the first and she thinks she’s never seen anyone smile like that before, like sunshine might splinter through and break him apart. She can feel her own smile widen under his.

"It is my lady. Oh, it is my love.” He clutches at his chest as he delivers the lines, eliciting snickers from his friends and a few playful shoves. He ignores them. "Oh, that she knew she were!"

“Well she knows now,” Raven heckles, shooting her a knowing smirk, before lowering her voice so only they can hear. “Romeo is kinda hot."

She can feel her face flush as she lets her eyes roam over his face, over hard muscle straining against thin cotton over dark skin littered with freckles. Raven’s not wrong.

“Please put him out of his misery and invite us up,” one of his friends yells, deftly avoiding the swing of an arm launched at him. She hears a muffled _shut up Murphy_ and a small scuffle breaks out. The one with a shaved head rolls his eyes so far back in his scull she’s worried he might damage something.

“Dibs on the ripped one with the man bun,” Raven stage whispers loud enough for everyone to hear and Luna just shrugs, busying herself rolling a joint.

“Does this sort of thing normally work for you?” she wonders out loud, biting her lip to cover her smile. “You know, the whole drunkenly declaring your love in the nerdiest way possible kind of thing?"

“Damn, she speaks, yet she says nothing. What’s up with that?” He feigns offence, but his eyes glitter and his smile is as brilliant as ever.

She notices he’s a little unsteady on his feet too, his speech slightly slurred, but he looks happy, like nothing can touch him. He looks like he might make her feel like that too. Plus Raven is really not wrong.

“This can only lead to an age-inappropriate three day relationship that will cause six deaths, including our own,” she retorts, but her smile is still wide and when his eyes find hers it’s impossible to tear herself away.

She leans her chin in her hand, giving him the most perfect opportunity. His eyes are full of amusement, his eyebrow raised slightly in question at her gesture. Maybe she does it on purpose.

"Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!” His tone drops an octave, eyes darkening slightly as he wets his lip with his tongue.

She definitely does it on purpose.

“Jesus, Griffin, just invite them up already,” Luna huffs, but her eyes sparkle with laughter.

“Ay me,” she mutters mostly to herself, but she made her decision a long time ago. “First floor, second door on the right. Door’s open."

Raven turns on her heel to stake her claim on the ripped one, and the guys move towards the door slapping Romeo’s shoulder on their way. He stays still for a bit, staring up at her with that blinding smile and the low hum inside her turns into electricity.

She weaves back through the crowd of sweating bodies, meeting him at the door.

“So have you come to deny thy father and refuse thy name?” she laughs, and his smile is even brighter up close.

“Absolutely.” He moves closer, his eyes flickering down to her mouth briefly.

“What is your name, out of interest?"

“Hi I’m Bellamy, I declare my love in the nerdiest way possible. But I’m not that drunk.” His hand is warm in hers, his big hand swallowing her small one.

He leans in over her, bracing an arm against the wall of the hallway. She barely notices she’s backed up against it.

“Well, what’s in a name anyway?"

She bites down on the thumb that has made its way up to her mouth, because she never said nerdy talk wasn’t her thing.

“Are you really actually biting your thumb at me?"

His eyes are wide and his smile has settled into a slight awestruck look. She thinks maybe she likes that as much as his happy smile.

“Do you really want to get into all that right now?” she huffs, grabbing his shirt to bring him closer.

He just shakes his head and leans down, mouth soft against hers. He kisses her like there’s no place he’d rather be, taking his time exploring her. They don’t grind up against each other or let their hands roam, they kiss like it’s the end goal, like it’s the conclusion. He lets his hand come up to cup her face, thumb slowly stroking her cheek, shooting stars across her skin.

“You don’t have a murderous dad or cousin or anything, do you?” he smiles into her mouth when they have to take a break for the sake of oxygen.

“My dad’s dead,” she whispers, but she’s actually smiling around the words.

“Good, mine too,” he laughs, leaning back in for more.

“I guess we’ll be alright then,” she sighs, running her hands through his hair, pulling him closer.

He inhales her smoky sighs and swallows her moans, fire burning in his eyes as he holds her close. They kiss like they have all the time in the world and it feels like they do. It feels like the whole night felt, full of promise and possibility and hope. It feels like the start of something. It feels like maybe not all violent delights have violent ends.

 


	12. Garden Variety Heroics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Bellarke Week 16 - Day 7: Favourite cute scene AND most heartbreaking scene
> 
> 3x02 from Bellamy's POV

It’s not _stupidly_ heroic, he reasons as he sneaks out of the cave. Definitely more your every day, garden variety heroics. Definitely.

 

The grounder clothes are scratchy and too big, and he belatedly realises that the grounder must have pissed himself when he died, because it’s positively ripe in here. Nevertheless, he’s already lost too much time, so he pushes on. 

 

  
_She is being hunted_.

 

It hadn’t really sunk in until they found the bloodied girl in the trading post, fighting to defend Clarke tooth and nail. The reality of it had sunk in like a ton of bricks. Ridiculous grounder superstition had put a target on her back and for the first time in months he’d started to question whether she’d actually make it back home, let alone if she wanted to anymore. 

 

Cold fear had gripped him since, a chilling sort of foreboding that they could really lose her for good this time. As soon as he’d had her in his sights he’d turned that fear into pure desperation. Seeing her gagged and bound in the hands of a bounty hunter had released something in him and he’d barely been able to contain it. Fear, anger, adrenaline - a toxic combination. Only an entire Ice Nation army had been able to stop him from running after her. 

 

But even enemy armies aren’t enough incentive for him to slow down for long, not when she’s this close. 

 

He moves carefully, with purpose through the warriors, trying not to dwell on the sharp spears or the morbid war paint. The ominous sound of war horns and the crowing of the vultures circling the sky above him should fill him with dread. It would, had it not been for the anxiety already blotting out any other rational thought. 

 

_I have to get her._

_I can’t lose her._

A heavy hand lands on his shoulder and he has to crane his neck to look up at the owner. Towering above him is a grotesquely painted man, hard glare glinting in black rimmed eyes. He tightens his grip on the hilt of his sword, mentally calculating how far he’d make it if he rammed it into the throat of this one, how quickly he’d be surrounded. He decides the element of surprise would get him pretty far, maybe even to the tree line. Maybe just far enough.

 

_I can’t lose her._

His hand twitches over the bone handle, ready to make his move, when the towering man grunts and turns him onto the path of the marching army.  He lets his shoulders sag and his breath go with a huff, and wonders if this might just fall into the stupidly heroic category after all. Or maybe just plain stupid. 

 

He manages to veer off unnoticed, but the hairs on the back of his neck immediately shoot back up as he spots a bloody handprint on some sort of metal pole. _Fuck_ , maybe he’s already too late, what if she’s already gone? 

 

When she left he knew that letting her go was the only thing he could do to help her. Even if it tore him apart to watch her back disappear into the forest. Even though he’s spent every night since wondering about her. Even though he never stopped hoping she’d just walk back into camp one day, asking if they could finally have that drink. 

 

He went out with every search party, never told Abby no when she asked for another, even if he knew they wouldn’t find her. Clarke was good at being lost, simply because she didn’t want to be found. Now, though, he’s convinced she’d chose safety over being used as some sort of good luck talisman for the Ice Nation Queen. 

 

He follows the blood trail down some stairs to an underground tunnel of sorts, and he tries to convince himself, tries to hope that the blood isn’t hers.  It can’t be, he’s too close. She’s too important. He doesn’t want to think about why.

 

He stops thinking altogether when he sees matted blonde curls and blood stained hands tied up to a pole. He rushes forward, not thinking, just letting relief and fading adrenaline steer him. She’s alive. She’s right here in front of him. All he has to do is reach out and she is right there under his trembling fingers, her eyes soft and relieved. 

 

“Let’s get you out of here."

 

“Look out!"

 

Before her warning registers pain ripples through him, the boot in his gut robbing him of air. He’s on his back, scrambling for his sword, for his knife but the other guy is too quick, stomping hard on his wrist. The cool metal of the sword pinching his neck stills him. His eyes flicker in panic between the man who has him overpowered and Clarke. 

 

_I can’t lose her._

It’s like a heartbeat in his veins, a thumping, repetitive chant. He can’t lose her. He can’t. _He can’t_. 

 

“No! P-please, please don’t!"

 

Her words ring out with the same desperation that has been eating at him all day, the same heedless urgency. Her voice breaks just as his skin breaks under the bounty hunters blade, her pain cutting him deeper than the weapon. 

 

“I’ll do anything, I’ll stop fighting! Just please, please don’t kill him!"

 

_Stupid._

He curses her timing, curses her for deciding this is the moment she needs to be stupidly selfless. He doesn’t want to die, but if there is a choice between her and him he’ll always choose her.

 

He wants to shout at her for being so reckless with her own life when he’s crossed armies to save it, but the sword against his throat makes it impossible to move or scream or anything without further compromising his airway. He shoots her a wild glare instead, hoping she’ll stop pleading for his damn life and start pleading for her own, but she is entirely focused on her assailant instead. 

 

_Stupid._

A searing pain shoots down his leg, cold grips him by the spine and his hands fly to his thigh. White electricity flashes behind his eyes as he gasps for air. Warm, sticky blood soaks his trousers and his hands and there is a sickening metallic smell in the air. He barely registers the rush of movement around him, as he twists around on the floor in pain. He grits his teeth, tries to breathe through the pain, tries to blink away the tears that blind his eyes, but by the time he regains his awareness he is alone. 

 

_Stupid._

This definitely falls into the stupidly heroic category, he knows. If he’s honest with himself he knew it the whole time. Still, he can’t turn back now. His stupid heroics only trigged her stupid heroics, and now she’s not even going to try to escape so he can’t stop now. 

_I have to get her._

 

_I can’t lose her._

He yanks the knife, his own stupid knife, out of his leg and hobbles back to the cave, dragging his leg along and biting down on the pain. They can’t have gotten far, they can still catch them. They can still get her. She’s still alive. 

 

The pain is excruciating but he’s willing to ignore it, willing to ignore the way the blood is pumping out of the wound, willing to ignore the increasingly serious dizziness. They have to keep going, they have to get her. His words ring out with desperation, echoing in the trees. There is a sharpness in the silence that follows, four sets of eyes resting heavily on him like he’s not simply being stupid but bordering on crazy. 

 

“We can’t lose Clarke,” he reiterates, softer. 

 

The looks he gets are understanding, but he can tell they don’t share his urgency, his desperation. He buckles slightly on his feet, leaning heavily on a boulder for support. His hope sinks as he realises his body can’t carry him, can’t live up to the insistent calling of his heart. He almost had her. He almost had her back, but she slipped through his fingers. Again. 

 

He curses his body, but deep down he knows it’s his stupidity that got him close but kept him far. If he’d listened to Gina, to Kane, to Monty, to _everyone_ instead of letting instinct take over maybe she wouldn’t still be out there, going willingly to meet her destiny. 

 

But when it came to Clarke he’d never been able to keep the heroics to a bare minimum, never been able to control his instincts. They’d always worked like this, selflessness on top of selflessness on top of selflessness. Two idiots always caring more about the other than themselves.

 

He’d laugh if it wasn’t so tragic.

 


	13. The Sound of Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post 4x04 from Bellamy's POV because the Bellamy Blake Bottom Lip Tremble™ won't leave me alone

When the heart breaks it doesn’t make a sound. There is no rip of flesh, no jarring moan, no heavy thud. There is just silence. Emptiness. Like the universe itself couldn’t come up with a sound to encompass such profound devastation. 

 

The screams that tore his throat to shreds die down but his heart keeps breaking in silence. With every heartbeat the tear in his heart grows, one side weighed down with grief. _His sister._ The other weighed down with guilt. _His responsibility._ Every breath he takesis a protest against his ribcage, wrestling for space against the pain. 

 

The chains tug at his wrists, carving deep grooves into his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. He is pulled over rocks and fallen trees, and sometimes he falls, but he doesn’t feel stone breaking his skin, doesn’t flinch against the crack of bone. Angry commands are growled in trigedasleng, but he doesn’t turn towards it or away from it. He feels heavy eyes on him, but he doesn’t look up at them. He keeps going, not hearing, not seeing, not feeling, just breaking.

 

He should probably care that there is the sharp tip of a spear digging into his back between his shoulder blades, that the spear is pushing him towards a battle that shouldn’t happen, that once again they are at the brink of war and destruction. Instead he feels numb, unaffected, since the reason to care about these things has been taken from him. 

 

_A warrior does not mourn those she's lost until after the battle is won._

She’d said that to him a long time ago, and she’d lived by those words since, but they ring hollow to him. The world could incinerate right at this moment and he wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Azgeda is marching on the only home he knows, ready to kill every single one of his friends, and there is no fight left in him. Keeping his sister alive had been the real battle of his life. And he’d lost. So what is there left to fight for?

 

He’s forced to this knees by heavy hands, a sharp knuckle tearing into his cheek when he isn’t quick enough to react. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth and he feels a slow trickle of blood run down his face but there is no pain, no sound escaping his lips, just silence. Soon there is darkness too, a hood or something having been shoved over his head and more shackles around his legs. He accepts the blackout, he puts up no fight. They can’t do anything worse to him than they already have. 

 

He is dragged, pushed, jostled, he is blinded and restrained, but with every thud of his boots against the ground his heart pounds and aches and tears. _Gone gone gone._ Even if he had started to lose her piece by piece since they landed, knowing she was alive had always kept hope floating that one day she’d come back to him. _Dead._ There is a finality to deaththat feels so severe, like a period in the middle of a sentence cutting the meaning in half. Now there is no hope of repairing what had broke between them. She died hating him. 

 

When the hood is eventually ripped off him, the daylight is blinding and painful and he barely has the energy to tilt his head up and take in the scene before him. He’s surrounded by the Azgeda army, a sword resting lightly on his chest as a threat or precaution, it’s hard to tell which. Kane is on his knees in the mud next to him, Roan and Echo on their horses behind him. He catches a flash of Echo’s steely eyes on him - he’s felt them on him the entire trek.

 

_I’m going to kill you._

He saves the anger for another day, if there is another day. It’ll keep.

 

Clarke is there, facing the entire army on her own and he isn’t even surprised. She always thinks she can fix everything. For her sake, for their sake, he hopes she can, but it doesn’t seem like it’s his business anymore. None of this matters. People are going to die. Most of the people here will be gone in two months, one way or another, so it barely matters if it all ends right here, right now. 

 

Clarke and Roan talk in clipped tones, Kane interjects, angry voices rise behind him and the walkie in Clarke’s hand buzzes and crackles. He doesn’t really pay attention, his mind drifts, jumping over old memories. Some are painful, most are happy, but even those feel jagged and raw like they have been tainted by death. 

 

Suddenly there is a blade to his throat, hands gripping his hair and pulling his head back to expose his neck. _Echo._ She issues some kind of ultimatum and Clarke’s face falls in that way he hates. Her eyes flicker and then steady, and he can tell she’s made some sort of decision. Her jaw is tight and ticking and, _fuck no_ , not this. She doesn’t get to choose him over others, not again. Never again. 

 

Echo’s sword digs deeper into his skin, nicking it slightly and he glances down at the metal. There are fresh bloodstains on the blade, no more than a day or two old and his heart stops beating entirely. _Octavia._ He stops hearing the voices around him, he only hears the blood thumping in his ears and those words that ended his world. _It was a good death._  


 

He pushes forward, leaning into the blade, letting it pierce his skin. The hand in his hair pulls back, fights him, but he keeps pushing. Warm blood pours out and he keeps going, against the muffled shouts and the pull at his scalp. Finally Echo looses her balance, letting go of his hair and letting the blade fall to the ground as she stumbles forward, calling her bluff. He huffs at the irony, that after everything she has done to him she still can’t bring herself to actually kill him. 

 

Around him the world descends into chaos, gunshots ring and voices scream and hands grab him, but before he can figure out who they belong to there is a sharp blow to his head and the world goes still again. He leans into the darkness. 

 

He wakes up back in Arkadia, head throbbing and heart in pieces. He finds himself disappointed that he’s alive, sighs deeply with the realisation that there will be no easy way out for him. He should’ve guessed. No lucky breaks. 

 

There is a hand in his hair still, but it feels different, lighter and softer, not demanding anything from him. When he flickers his eyes open he’s not surprised that it’s Clarke watching him wake up. He doesn’t know when she stopped surprising him, when everything she does started to seem inevitable to him. 

 

“Hey,” she says, eyes weary but not urgent. She must have found a way to fix it after all. He wishes there was some way she could fix this too. 

 

“Hi,” he breathes, closing his eyes again, hiding from her scrutiny. 

 

“What was all that about?” she asks, carefully, fingers running lightly over the unbandaged parts of his throat. 

 

He doesn’t answer, there is no words to explain how his heart is still tearing apart, or how impossible it is to keep breathing when every breath he takes hurts. 

 

“Kane told me,” she says after a while, voice soft and solemn, her fingers still running slowly through his hair. “About...”

 

She stops herself and he’s grateful. He’s not ready to talk about it, about how his life holds no meaning without his sister, about the cold that has started to settle in his bones. He stays silent because it is the only thing he can still hold on to. 

 

“I’m sorry,” is all she says, and her voice cracks a little. 

 

She sits by his side in quiet solidarity, running her fingers through his hair over and over until her touch makes his eyes leak. Fat, warm tears stream down his cheeks through the closed curtain of lashes, staining his skin. He stays quiet, he doesn’t wail or scream like he did the first day, when all his pain was on the outside, sharp and raw. Streams of tears wet his face but he breathes slowly, feeling the dull pain that has settled in his chest expand and contract.

 

She leans her forehead against his, and he can feel her own silent, heavy drops land on his face. He scrambles blindly for her hand, for an anchor and finds it, warm and reassuring. She feels his pain as acutely as she does her own, it’s what drew them together in the first place, this wordless understanding of each other’s agony. 

 

So without a word, in complete silence, she holds him steady, carries him through as his heart finally rips apart, the pieces falling soundlessly like a feather. 

 

_I hear you._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then it all gets better again when he finds out O isn't dead after all, yay!
> 
> I already know this isn't how it's gonna go down next week but Bellamy's pain feeds my muse so this was way more hopeless than canon will be. See I'm only lowering your expectations so Bellamy's pain won't kill you completely :)


	14. Let Me See You Do That Yoga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt fill for [The 100 Kink Meme](http://100kinkmeme.livejournal.com/1753.html?thread=163545#t163545) on LJ:
> 
> Clarke takes a yoga class. Bellamy is the instructor. Her flexibility needs work.

Clarke is no stranger to yoga practice. The heavy breathing, the stifling heat, the sometimes overpowering odours, she can block them all out easily and just focus on the stretch of her own muscles, the count of her own breath, the pinpoint focus of _drishti_. She comes, finds her rhythm on her mat and works at her practice with minimal intervention. That is until the new teacher arrives.

 

She hears about him before she sees him, the regular yoga bunnies all a flutter with how _thorough_ he is, which leads to choked giggles as they sip their coconut waters. 

 

“I’ve never gone that deep before,” one claims, which makes the others keen loudly, so she already knows he’s probably young and decent looking. They never get this excited about any other guest teacher. 

 

So she’s somewhat prepared when she rolls up for her first class, but she’s not about to let it distract her. She knows what she’s about and getting excited about a hard body and an acceptable face is really not in the yoga spirit. She’s here to learn, to grow, to _holy shit._ She’s momentarily thrown by dark curls, freckles and a jaw that she could cut herself on, tries to shake it off, but is forced to let her eyes rest on him again because he is fucking breathtaking. 

 

She finds her mat and closes her eyes, tries to let the opening mantra clear her mind and find her centre, but it’s fucking impossible because as soon as she opens her eyes he’s right there, and her eyes flicker over the flex of his muscle as he helps another student deeper into _pagangusthana_. She finds her breathing and starts on her sun salutations, stubbornly focusing her eyes on her fingertips, on her navel, on her nose like she’s been taught, but she’s losing her rhythm already, breathing into downward dog far longer than she’s supposed to. 

 

Before she can come up, she feels warm hands on her hips, pushing her backwards and she forgets to breathe in as he fits his body flush against her, stretching her hips and lungs apart with thick fingers. 

 

“Breathe,” he murmurs and dear god she’s trying, but he’s burning hot against her and the way he’s rocking her back to increase the stretch in her hamstrings doesn’t feel like the regular kind of yoga instruction when her cunt throbs like that. “Engage your _bandha_.”

 

She tries, she clenches up and in and hopes it will ease some of the pressure building inside her but instead she feels like she’s missing something to clench down on. Like his fingers. Or his cock. _Fuck._

He lets up eventually, and her next inhale is shaky as hell. She hopes he doesn’t notice, but turns out he is the engaged kind of yoga teacher, and over the next hour he’s constantly on her, correcting almost every position, pushing her deeper into every _asana._

* * *

She’s getting a little embarrassed about how sweaty she’s getting, how slick her skin is when he runs his hands over it, and she’s pretty sure the heat radiating from her core must actually be noticeable at this point. So when she prepares for her achilles heel in yoga, the _utthita hasta padangusthasana,_ or the extended hand-to-toe pose, or how the hell am I supposed to balance like this pose in her case, she’s really praying he’s occupied with another student. She really doesn’t want his appraising eyes on her as she flashes her crotch and probably falls on her ass in the process. 

 

She can tell right away it’s going to be a lost cause, her leg is barely off the floor before her mind trips her up and she has to put it back down in a shaky wobble. She tries again, but she’s just too aware of his presence in the room so her leg comes straight back down before she’s even had a chance to hook her fingers around her big toe. He’s there in a flash and her stomach clenches in a mix between horror and anticipation.

 

“You want help?” he asks, eyes dark and heavy on her and her traitorous, traitorous body responds before her mouth can say no, nodding slowly but decisively. “Ok, breathe in.”

 

She inhales slowly, tries to keep her heartbeat steady as he lifts her leg right up to his shoulder, his other hand pushing her chest down to rest on her leg. He must be able to feel it, she thinks, the heat radiating from her core, but if he does he doesn’t seem to mind. If anything he moves closer so she’s practically doing the splits right along the hard lines of his body as he breathes with her, getting her to match his rhythm. 

 

“Inhale, head up,” he says, his voice a little gruff as she straightens her back and somehow locks eyes with him. Her lips fall open and she inhales sharply as she feels his eyes burn into her, and she’s not really sure what they’re even doing anymore but it definitely doesn’t feel like yoga. 

 

He shakes his head like he’s trying to shake a thought away before fastening his grip on her leg and twisting it out to the side, flat hand resting against the small of her back instead of on her shoulder where it probably should be. Okay, so she’s not alone in this it seems. They breathe slowly together and the brief moment of being forced to turn her head the other way gives her a little time to focus again. She gets through the rest of the pose with minimal help from him and she’s feeling kind of good about it until it dawns on her.

 

“Ok, other leg,” he says, a little helplessly, before she’s right there again, pressed up against him with her legs spread wide. She’s pretty sure her yoga tights are more than damp around the crotch right now, but she can’t find it in herself to care once she feels the faint swell of him pressed into her core. 

 

The rest of the practice is a mess, she forgets to breathe, she forgets to count, she skips a pose here and there and does a few in the wrong order, but he says nothing, just keeps pressing her further into the mat, stretching her wider and wider each time. When he deepens the last of her forward bends, his knees pressing her hips into the floor, his whole weight leaning on her back to push her head into her shin she feels him hard against her and almost stops breathing entirely for a moment until he reminds her to exhale, his voice two octaves deeper than before. 

* * *

 

When she’s finally in her favourite pose of all, _savasana_ , or the aptly named corpse pose, just lying on her back with her eyes closed and her limbs spent, she’s too keyed up to relax properly. Her shoulders are high up against her ears, her arms tense and she’s clenching her butt cheeks unintentionally. And because he actually is an excellent teacher, he notices everything, comes over and pushes her shoulders into the floor.

 

“Relax, ok?” he mutters quietly, so quiet that it feels personal. She has to fight not to open her eyes and look at him. “Just breathe for me.”

 

He shakes her arms out, then moves to her legs so she is forced to unclench and de-tense all the muscles that are wound up tight. His hands are scorching hot and calloused as they roam innocently over her skin and she imagines them all over, loosening every knot and relaxing every muscle. She feels heavy and strangely sated as she melts into the floor, and she may even have dozed off for a minute because when she finally opens her eyes again the room is almost empty, just one regular yoga bunny rolling her mat up slowly and batting her lashes at him. 

 

He dismisses her quickly, her face falling as she walks off, leaving them alone. 

 

“Thank you,” she says as she gets on her feet again slowly, watching his eyes roam freely up her body. “Great session.”

 

“Your flexibility could use some work,” he says, casually, but his voice rumbles so deep in his chest she feels a shiver run through her. He notices, lifts his eyebrow lazily and smirks at her. 

 

“Yeah?” 

 

“Yeah,” he confirms, moving across the room towards her. “I could show you some hip openers if you want?”

 

He stops just before he reaches her, eyes dropping to the generous amount of cleavage her sports top gives her, not bothering to hide his staring. Sometime during the session he’s lost his tank top too, and the hard lines of his abs, the defined vee between his hips and the visible veins running up his arms gives her every excuse to stare back.

 

She can see the outline of his dick through his shorts, which are slung dangerously low on his hips. He slowly raises a hand and strokes himself over the fabric and yeah, those hip openers sound really good right about now. 

 

“I could definitely loosen up a little, yeah,” she breathes, voice ragged and haughty, and in a flash he’s flicked the lock on the door and drawn the curtains and she’s already throbbing for him. 

 

He takes three big steps across the floor before he’s on her, mouth searingly hot on hers, his tongue fucking into her mouth slowly. She pushes his shorts down and he immediately springs free, no boxers restraining him and when she gets her hand around him he’s hot and hard and heavy and just fucking perfect like every other part of him. 

 

“You got any idea how hard it was for me to keep my hands off these during class?” he mutters as he strips her top and bra off in one swift move, grasping at her tits almost painfully. “So fucking perfect,” he mumbles mostly to himself as his mouth descends on them, sucking hard at her nipple. 

 

He is a little rough and demanding with his mouth, nipping and biting and sucking like he means for it to hurt a little and it does, but each lick of pain sends fresh waves of pleasure right to her clit so she urges him on with nails biting into skin and fingers pulling mean at his hair. He growls into her skin, vibrating off her as he pulls down her yoga pants harshly, dipping his nose right into her pubic bone without any hesitation.

 

“Fuck, I swear I could smell you when I was correcting you,” he mumbles against her clit, making her twitch with the tremor of his voice.

 

“Shit shit shit,” she manages, because how does he make that sound so fucking hot that she can feel a trickle of liquid running down her inner thigh?

 

His tongue darts out to lap it up and he sighs heavily into her skin, a small shiver running through the hardness of his muscle. He jumps back on his feet, licks into her to share her taste and she bites back on his tongue just to show him that she can be mean too. 

* * *

 

He grabs her leg then, throws it over his shoulder for real this time, so she’s spread wide open for him and she feels every muscle in her legs protesting at the stretch. He runs the head of his cock up her slit, lubing it up with her juices and he slides easily, bumps teasingly against her clit. When he pushes into her she feels painfully tight, the angle pulling at her and making him fit snugly inside. 

 

He groans into her mouth as he fills her, pulls at her hips to slide as deep as he can get, testing her balance. 

 

“ _Bandha_ ,” he growls into her when she wobbles on her standing leg slightly, so she tightens her core, pulls him in and up and manages to stay on her foot as he pumps into her harder. 

 

“Fuck, I can feel that,” he pants as she keeps clenching around him and it’s never felt this tight or this good before, the way he fills her up completely. 

 

His breath comes out hard and fast, like hers, but then he takes a large breath, controls himself and falls into the _ujjaiy_  pattern of deep inhale then exhale through the nose. He nods at her as he slides in and out of her rhythmically and it sets a whole new pace for them.

 

“Breathe with me,” he demands, his voice shaky and gruff, and she tries, inhales with him to the count of five as he pumps into her five times, exhales to the count of five as he keeps snapping his hips against him, and _oh wow_. 

 

She widens around him, takes him deeper as she controls her breath, feels a coil tighten in her centre and her head feels light with all the oxygen. She concentrates on her breathing, on the feel of him inside her, on the sensations in her body and it’s a lot, it’s a lot more than she’s ever experienced with anyone else before.

 

Suddenly he reaches under her and lifts her off the floor, throwing her other leg over his shoulder and she’s suspended in the air, impaled on his cock and relying on his strength alone. She lets out a little yelp in surprise and then a low moan from deep inside her chest when it makes her take him even deeper, all the way to the hilt.

 

“I’ve got you,” he mutters, letting his breath go so he can fit his mouth over her and fuck his tongue into her mouth slowly, almost sweetly. His hipbones slam into her ass as she scrambles for purchase on his shoulders, trying to find her breathing and her _bandha_ again.

 

And then she is lost, lost to her own body and his, her mind blocking out everything but the way his cock bumps against her cervix, slides just right against the ridges of her cunt, the way her nipples scrape roughly against her own knees. She pulls him further and further in with each inhale, stretches just right around him with each exhale so they can go deeper and deeper. 

 

They go like this for a long time, longer than should be possible, but they breathe through it, keeps the build just simmering and it’s the most intense pleasure she’s ever felt. Finally, when her legs shake and she can feel his arms tremble in their grip on her ass, she lets her hand drop to her clit, running tight circles over it until the build spills over and she clamps down violently on his cock, her whole body taut as she rides her orgasm frantically. She feels the way his cock surges and pulses inside her, feels him shoot his load in heavy spurts into her, feels his breath slow with hers. 

 

Finally he lets her down, a tremble running through his tight body as he pulls out of her and fits his mouth over hers in a soft, searing kiss. 

 

“Wow,” she manages, because really there are no other words that cover entirely what he just did to her. 

 

“Yeah, wow,” he smiles against her lips and she thinks maybe he doesn’t make a habit of fucking his students in the _shala_ like that.

 

“You’re here for how many weeks again?”

 

“Four.”

 

“I think my hips will be really open at the end of those four weeks,” she huffs, because there is no way they’re not doing that again.

 

“There is definitely potential,” he says, pulling back from her and watching her with glittering eyes. 

 

“I’m Clarke by the way,” she smiles softly, because he should probably know that if they’re doing this again.

 

“Bellamy.”

 

“ _Namaste_."

 


	15. Choked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breath play gets surprisingly emotional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Birthday fic for MissMarissa who has been waiting for this for the better part of a year and also has a huge thing for Bellamy's hands, as do we all. Happy birthday love!

Clarke can pinpoint the exact moment she knew she was fucked. It was when Bellamy’s hands rested on her shoulder just a little bit longer than necessary and she stopped mid-sentence to turn to study the hand in detail. She remembers the way the atmosphere in the room changed in an instant, from worried intensity to charged hesitancy. She remembers the way his thumb slid against bare skin and it was as if he’d struck a match against her, sparks dancing and setting every hair on her body on end. There had been no hesitancy after that, they’d both ignited and ever since she hadn’t been able to extinguish that flame he’d set in her. 

 

They don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about the way he made her come on his fingers that first time in the chancellor’s office. They don’t talk about the desperation in his voice when he gasps her name. They don’t talk about the way she’ll go to sleep in her own chambers but wake up in his. And they certainly don’t talk about the way it’s getting harder and harder to get up and leave in the morning, how neither of them want to let the other go or how many times she’s caved after looking at his messy hair and sleep rumpled face and folded herself back into his arms. 

 

It feels fragile, so that’s why they don’t talk about it. They’ve both lost so much, both carry around so much weight on their shoulders so it feels like if they didn’t have each other in all this, everything might just fall apart. Being this intimate with each other both feels like too much and not enough at the same time. It feels like letting go of the control she’s fought so hard to hold on to all this time. 

 

So when she turns up at his door again when the Ark is dark and quiet, when there are no eyes following her, when there is just her and him, it feels a little like she’s standing at the edge of a cliff, ready to fall. 

 

“Hey,” he says, grabbing her wrist with warm, strong hands and pulling her inside. 

 

His lips are warm and dry on hers, soft and comforting, and it makes her think that falling might not be the worst thing in the world. 

 

“You ok?” he asks, concerned, and it’s just so Bellamy that she has to smile a little. Things are rarely ok down here, but as soon as he closes the door behind her she forgets about it all because he fills her mind completely.

 

“Better now,” she sighs, as he runs his lips down her neck and his hands down her arms in slow, light movements and she already feels a little light headed from his touch. 

 

“What do you need, baby?” he mumbles against her hair, the deep timbre of his voice sending shockwaves through her. 

 

He slowly peels her jacket off, his fingers trailing over her collar bone and then her throat, sending a jolt of heat through her.

 

“I just need you, Bell,” she breathes, leaning her head back against his shoulder as he fits his whole hand around her neck, just lightly squeezing, the calluses on his hand rough against her skin. 

 

“Don’t worry, Princess, I’ve got you,” he rasps, strong and warm behind her. She wonders if she’s ever going to get used to this feeling, the heat spreading across her skin like fire, the heaviness that settles in her limbs, the free fall in her stomach. 

 

He quickly sheds the rest of her clothes, along with his own, crowds her against the bed and pushes her down into the mattress, his eyes burning hot trails up and down her body. She’s shaking before he even touches her, every nerve lit in anticipation of what’s to come. She’s never been with anyone who had this effect on her, never felt so consumed by someone as she does by him. She should have guessed. Everything Bellamy does he puts his everything into, and he does the same with her - throws himself into it, headlessly. 

 

“Let me look at you,” he murmurs, curling a warm hand around her knee, lifting it and pulling her legs apart slightly before repeating the motion with her other leg. 

 

Bared and open to him, he doesn’t move in, he just stares at her, lets his eyes flit over every part of her, eyes dark and heavy as he takes her in. _Beautiful_ , she thinks he says, but she can’t make out the words over the sound of blood rushing to her head. Her heart beats a heavily in her chest, rioting against her ribs, and her cunt throbs to the same rhythm. 

 

Finally he descends, nipping carefully at the soft skin of her thighs, dragging his mouth slowly upwards. It’s a new thing between them now, the way he takes his time with her, the way the rush has suddenly disappeared. At the beginning it was need and desperation that drove them together, now it’s a deeper hunger, a slow, meticulous dance to learn each other. 

 

They don’t talk much, the wordless communication between them intensified when it’s just the two of them like this. He’d always been good at reading her, even back when she didn’t trust him. She feels like she can read him too, she knows when to move and how much without him having to guide her. 

 

“Beautiful,” he says again, and this time she can hear him as he runs his thumb lightly over her clit, making her hips buck up against him. 

 

His thumb rolls over her in slow, deliberate circles, light but unrelenting. He watches her with those heavy, wondrous eyes, takes in every minute tremble of her thighs, every small intake of breath as he changes up the pressure. She gasps quietly as his nail grazes against her, arches her back up off the mattress and relishing in letting it happen to her, in letting go of control.

 

She watches the tendons in his arm flex and tense as he works her up, feels the heat spread from her core and rush upwards, making her skin erupt in goosebumps. His other hand follows the trail, as if he can see her arousal spread over her body, brushing his calloused palm over her hip, then her waist, then her ribs, as if he’s chasing the heat with his hand. He brushes over a nipple, and she lets out a low moan at the added pleasure. He doesn’t linger though, he lets his hand travel upward, callouses scraping against her collarbone before it comes to a rest over her throat. His hand is large, covering her from side to side, warm and heavy against her. He keeps up his slow, steady manipulation of her clit and she knows she’s slick and ready for him. 

 

The hand on her throat stays in place, the light pressure a reminder of what’s to come. His eyes search hers, asking for that trust he needs to continue, checking if this is what she needs tonight. She gives him that trust, nodding her head ever so slightly, watching as his lashes flicker and his eyes darken. There is always this struggle behind them whenever they do this, she can see him battling his own experiences, his own memories to give her this. She saw the marks around his neck. She still sees how his hand sometimes flies up to his throat whenever someone mentions Mount Weather. But he still does it, chooses to, for her. 

 

He eases off on her clit first, before his fingers tighten around the sides of her throat pushing upward slightly, pinning her in place. The pressure is enough to make her breathing slow, but it doesn’t feel restricting yet. It feels powerful, letting go so entirely, to put all her trust in him. She relaxes into his grip, feels a slow, rolling heat fill her entire body as her breathing comes to a shallow, slow rhythm. She catches his eyes, sees that warm glint in them, the awe and respect that fill them and she feels so safe in his hands that it makes her heart echo in her chest. He watches her closely as her body slackens, watches her chest rise and fall steadily, watches as she submits to him. 

 

And then, when she’s entirely still and calm, he starts. His fingers flex and tighten around her airway, carefully pressing down the sides only, avoiding the trachea. His other hand dance over her heated skin, expert fingers rolling a nipple between them, pinching and pulling and immediately she’s on fire. The limited oxygen heightens everything, makes each stroke of his fingers over her sensitive skin feel magnified, makes her feel small in her own body, like it can’t contain all the sensations running through her. 

 

He runs his hand down her frame, sparkles dancing across her skin in its wake and when he lands his thumb back on her clit electricity jolts right through her entire body, forcing her eyes to fall shut. She feels his mouth close over her breast, his warm, fat tongue flicking her nipple persistently as he runs equally tight, determined circles over her clit. Her lungs are tight, pressure building as her head starts swimming a little. He slides a finger into her and she wants to buck up against his hand to get him to give her more, but the hand on her throat keeps her in place, and it’s almost too much. As soon as he adds a second finger, curls it up inside her as his mouth continues to suck on her nipple, she is done for. He lets up on her throat as she pulses and throbs around him, oxygen and blood rushing to her head as her orgasm tears through her.  Stars dance behind her eyes, her body flexes and arches and her breath comes in heavy, raspy heaves. He doesn’t let up entirely though, keeps that hand heavy and firm around her windpipe, keeps the pressure on her clit, pulling at the string that keeps her up. 

 

Once the tension leaves her body again, he flexes around her throat again, his fingers splayed over her skin, his arm tight and hard. His bare chest ripples slightly at the controlled force and she’s suddenly filled with a rush of fondness of this man whose life is steeped in violence but still treats her with such tenderness. Even with his hand around her throat like this, even knowing his hands have taken life exactly this way before, she trusts him. She knows with every fibre of her being that he would stop in a heartbeat if it came down to it, knows she wouldn’t even have to tell him to, he gets all the cues he needs from watching her closely. 

 

His grip tightens and she leans into it, angling her jaw downwards into his hand, and her breathing slows again, quietens right down into barely-there puffs. Each breath is slow and shallow, the blood thumping in her ears. His breathing slows right down with hers, inhaling and exhaling in time with her, and her focus goes a little blurry. She feels light headed, like she’s about to lose consciousness. Her heart speeds up in protest, survival instincts clicking into place, but she lets her body go limp, serenity washing over her as he slides a finger down her slit and then sinks his cock into her. 

 

He sets a slow pace, filling and stretching her with each slide, his eyes almost black as he’s focused entirely on her, on watching her every reaction. With each long breath he fucks into her, dragging against her, making her head spin with every thrust. His hand is hot and tight around her throat, the pressure so strong that at this point she knows he won’t take his eyes off her. Her vision goes black at the edges as he rucks her up, her lungs smarting with the lack of air. But she can feel the heat burn low in her belly again, the top of her scalp tingling as his pubic bone drags over her clit with a slow, meticulous rhythm. 

 

She watches as his arm trembles under the constant strain, as his bottom lip slackens and wobbles a little, sweat beading on his forehead and making his dark curls stick to his face. He’s close, she can tell, but his focus doesn’t falter, his control never slips, he keeps the hand on her throat steady and his thrusts slow. His other hand shudders a little as he rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger almost lazily, building the pressure inside her. Her cunt throbs hard around his cock, clenching and tightening around him like his hand clenches around her throat. He flicks a nail sharply over her nipple then, making her limp body stiffen in an instant, her back arching to chase the feeling. And then he does it again, and she stops breathing entirely. Her whole body goes rigid and he pumps into her once, twice, harder and faster, and she falls. He removes his hand from her throat completely, fingers immediately finding her other nipple and blood rushes to her head, making her see black. She hears her own harsh gasps as her lungs flood with air, her mouth open and gulping, her head spinning, her world turning. 

 

She comes so hard she barely registers that he’s coming to, his breath harsh and filthy expletives tumbling out of him. _Beautiful_ , he says again, _so fucking beautiful_ , and the way he gasps her name brings tears to her eyes. Emotions flood her, and she’s not just gasping for air, she’s grabbing for him blindly, pulling him down into a tight embrace, his cock still hard inside her. She feels the heat in her cheeks, the blood returning to them, making them flush bright red and her heart is hammering so hard in her chest that she thinks he can probably feel it against his ribs. 

 

“You ok?” he whispers carefully in her air, his voice rough and tainted with emotion. 

 

It feels big, this thing between them. Her trusting him with her life, him taking on the responsibility of that trust. He allows her to reset her brain, lets her take a break from her own mind. She allows him control in a world where he has very little, lets him relish in her complete confidence. There is nothing halfway about this thing between them, it’s consuming, it’s exhilarating - it’s everything.

 

“Yeah,” she breathes, calm and deep. Free. “I’m great."

 

And when she wakes up the next morning to the greying light filtering through the shuttered window, her throat sore, the skin covering it tender, she burrows down further into his warm chest. They don’t need to talk about it, there is nothing to say. She’s always been his, even when she wasn’t with him. He barely moves, just throws a warm arm around her and pulls her in tighter. They don’t have to talk about it because they both know that the trust between them is so strong, so powerful that love doesn’t even come close. 


	16. Exit Wounds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from morleybob : Bellarke Modern AU where Clarke is a resident in a hospital and is in a relationship with Bellamy but Clarke has to work on the night before Christmas and Bellamy wants to surprise her with a visit at work but has an accident on the way there and Clarke stays with him the whole night (because he's in danger you know) and when it's morning and it's Christmas Bellamy wakes up and asks her to marry her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's fluff, I promise.

Clarke slumps into a chair in the resident’s lounge, relieved to be sitting for the first time in what must be 13 hours. It’s hard to decide whether her feet hurt more than her back or vice versa. It’s been one of those shifts where one disaster has replaced another, but thankfully she’s not had to deliver the worst kind of news to any waiting families. She hates looking into those desperate, pleading eyes and not being able to give them the answers they want, especially now, just before Christmas. 

 

She exhales slowly, lets the tension seep out of her bones. It’s her last shift before the holidays, just a few more hours and she can go home and curl up in Bellamy’s arms and stay there for a week. A slow smile tugs at her lips at the thought. She fell for him so hard when she first met him, and every day since she’s been falling a little more.

 

She tugs her phone out of her pocket and sees a message from him and she shouldn’t still get butterflies after six years but she does every time, without fail. 

 

_I’ll stop by the hospital after my shift. Love you x_

 

It makes her grin wider and stupider. Sometimes he’ll stop by on his way home from work just to check on her, just to make sure that she’s well hydrated and that she’s eaten some of the provisions he always packs for her. He’s such a mom, but she loves it. 

 

She frowns when she sees the time of the message. It’s already two hours old and she’s pretty sure he should’ve finished his shift already. Her thoughts are interrupted by her pager buzzing, and she puts her phone away in her locker again before hurrying down the corridor to her next patient. 

 

* * *

 

When she’s done an hour later, Miller’s there and she smiles widely at Bellamy’s partner, waving at him with a limp hand. She’s so exhausted it takes her a few moments to realise he’s not smiling back, and Bellamy isn’t right behind him like she expected. In fact it takes her several moments to question Miller’s presence entirely. The wheels in her head turn slowly, noticing that Miller is still in his police uniform. The dark material looks wet, too dark and sticky. And then she sees his hands. His hands are shaking uncontrollably and they’re covered in blood. 

 

Her body goes cold and she stops in her tracks. Miller’s face is ashen, his eyes staring blankly ahead, and it’s clear that he is in shock. Behind him, more police officers turn up, agitated and pacing, and even if she recognises many of them they all refuse to look at her. She turns slowly, walks on autopilot to the curtain behind her, ripping it open. 

 

It’s like the world stops in its tracks. She can hear Jackson giving short, curt orders to the nurses to hang more units, to increase pressure, to check for exit wounds. She can hear machines beeping erratically, and interns giving stats that are far from reassuring, but it’s like the doctor in her has left the building because the only thing she can focus on is him. There, on the gurney, is Bellamy, pale and unconscious. He doesn’t even look like himself, his freckles barely visible, his hair smeared back and blood soaked compressions stuck to the side of his head. One of her interns is pressing down hard on his gut, her plastic gloves stained red with his blood. Another of her resident colleagues is applying pressure to his right leg, but she can see the blood spurting out beneath the compress and that’s when the room starts spinning. 

 

“Clarke, you cannot be here right now,” Jackson shouts from somewhere far away, and she jerks forward, her hands itching to fix, to heal. 

 

“He’s losing pressure,” someone says, urgent, Maya maybe. 

 

She doesn’t understand why she can’t get to him, why the steps she takes don’t bring her closer, but then she feels the hands on her shoulders. 

 

“Shhh,” she hears Miller comfort, but she hadn’t realised she’d been screaming. “They’ve got this.”

 

“Clarke, listen to me,” Jackson says, bending down to look her in the eye. “He’s been shot in the head, and he also has gunshot wounds to his stomach and leg. We think the bullets have nicked an artery in his leg and we think the spleen might be compromised, so we are taking him straight to surgery before his pressure drops even further, ok?”

 

His words are as clear as they can be but she still doesn’t understand, doesn’t comprehend how abruptly her world can be turned on its head. They wheel him out, the cacophony of machines and people going with him. His hand slides off the gurney as they go and she stares at that familiar hand all lifeless and limp as it disappears down the corridor. There are are bloody wheel marks on the floor and that’s when the ground disappears beneath her. 

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know how much time has passed but when she comes to she’s in a chair, clutching Miller’s bloody hand in hers. They’re in the relatives’ room, the place where she normally delivers the most unthinkable news to people. She’s sat here holding hands, giving hugs or tissues to unconsolable family members. She’s sent them off with words that ring hollow to her now, words that hold no comfort when she knows too much. She knows too much about catastrophic outcomes, of the intricacies of blood vessels, of the vital function of organs, of the uncertainties of brain damage.

 

“It was just a routine traffic stop,” Miller says, distant, like he’s still trying to make sense of it all. His hand is still trembling. 

 

The how doesn’t make it better or worse, no explanation or detail can explain the why to her. She looks down on the dried blood on Miller’s hand, on the dark red fingerprints that have transferred to her skin and it feels like she is watching her future bleed from her hands. 

 

“We’ve already apprehended the suspect,” Kane says, gently, but that doesn’t help either. 

 

_Princess_ , he’d called her the very first night they’d met, a cocky smirk on his face that she’d bristled against at first. It had pretty much felt like a fairy tale with him ever since, like they’d been slaying some dragons together, rescuing each other from that tower. But she knows fairy tales aren’t supposed to end like this, they end with the princess taking her first breath, not her last. 

 

Hours pass and she feels every minute, every second. Miller is sent home to clean off and change clothes but there are still stains on her hands and on her scrubs, and she doesn’t think all the water in the world could wash them off. Her thoughts race from despair to hope, from reliving old memories to grieving those they haven’t made together yet. Maya comes by every couple of hours to update her, but she can’t make her brain think rationally. Whenever she’s told one problem has been fixed, her mind races straight ahead to the next devastating complication.  

 

Octavia turns up, out of breath and wild eyed. She bursts into tears as soon as she sees Clarke and clings on to her fiercely, and she automatically thinks that Bellamy would be so much better at this. That’s the thought that finally make the tears fall from her eyes in fat, warm drops. Her tears feel like acid on her cheeks, the pain in her heart like an exploding bullet, as if she’s waiting to be stitched back together just like him. 

 

Jackson comes in after a few more hours and she can feel all the blood drain from her face. He looks worn out and apprehensive, and she instinctively knows the surgery had been a fight. 

 

“He’s in recovery,” Jackson says quickly, giving her the most important information first. He’s still alive. There is still hope. 

 

He goes on to tell her in clinical detail about haemorrhage, splenectomy and raised ICP and then he translates to Octavia. He’s lost a lot of blood. They are concerned about infection and muscle swelling in his leg, about blood clots and brain damage and her stomach drops with Octavia’s eyes.

 

“So now we wait,” she says, trying to reassure Octavia more than herself, as if waiting isn’t all they’ve been doing so far. 

 

“He might wake up in an hour, or he might wake up in a day, we just don’t know,” Jackson explains, squeezing her shoulder. She knows he’s leaving out the last words on purpose. _Or he might not wake up at all._

 

“Can I see him?"

 

Jackson looks at her like he wants to say no, and she knows he would have said no to any other family member.

 

“Clean up and don’t touch the incisions,” he relents, before turning to Octavia. “Sorry, but you’re going to have to wait until he wakes up.”

 

Octavia looks like she’s ready to murder Jackson, but she squeezes her hand tight in hers. 

 

“Go,” she implores with her wet, blue eyes. “Lincoln will be here soon.”

 

She nearly runs down the corridor, her shaky legs barely holding her weight, her heart pumping tears from her eyes as if it’s blood. 

 

* * *

 

He’s even paler than before, a yellowish pallor to his skin, a deep purple beneath his eyes. His chest rises and falls rhythmically with the ventilator, the hiss of the machine both comforting and heart wrenching at once. Most of his body is covered by blankets so at first glance he looks peaceful, but she knows all too well how hard his body is working to absorb the injuries beneath the hospital gown. The wound to his head is harder to ignore, despite the neat bandage. There is a fat tire mark where his beautiful hair has been shaven off and when she runs her hands lightly over the remaining curls fresh tears stream down her face.

 

She pulls up a chair close to his bed, wrapping her hand around his, the one not attached to a cannula and pulse probe. He is warm like he always is, and she just wants him to hold on, to fight through this so she never has to feel his hand grow cold in hers. She lets her head drop to his hand, lets his body heat stem her tears. He is the only person who can stop her tears, yet he is the one she cries for. 

 

The monitors beep, the ventilator huffs and outside the snow is falling silently. 

 

"Bellamy, if you can hear me, if you're still there, it's been 2199 days since I first met you.” 

 

She speaks softly but insistently, knowing the anaesthesia is still flowing in his veins but this as much for her as it is for him. 

 

“Please, Bellamy, I need you to hear this.” She clutches his hand tighter, drawing comfort from the steady pulse in his wrist. "We've been through a lot together, you and I.” 

 

She thinks of the wars they’ve fought and lost over the years, the times it felt like it was just her and him against the whole world. She thinks of the times they were so far apart there might as well have been a universe between them, and the times they had been drawn back together like magnets, their souls so interconnected it had been impossible for them to stay apart. 

 

"I didn't like you at first. That's no secret.” She smiles a half smile through dried tears, her voice quavering at the memory, at the _brave Princess_ that echoes in her mind. "But even then, every stupid thing you did, came from a good place. Everybody didn't always see that, but I did.”

 

He’d always been reactionary, every emotion on the surface of his skin, his heart making decisions before his head could catch up. It had made every fight with him explosive, just like falling in love with him had been. It hadn’t been slow and quiet, it had been fast and loud and she'd had no hope of recovering. 

 

"You've got such a big heart, Bellamy.”

 

He’s got such a capacity for love, offering forgiveness when no apology has been given, seeing the best in people even when they don’t ask him to. He gives so much and expects so little in return, she’s been playing catch up with him all this time. 

 

“I’ll follow you anywhere, as long as you go somewhere I can go too.”

 

Her voice cracks a little, the possibility of him not being by her side, of not seeing him smile crookedly at her, of not feeling his arms close around her ever again making her throat close up painfully. 

 

"You inspire me because of this.” She places her palm over his heart, feeling the heavy thump beneath his ribs. "But I need you to make sure you keep this, too.” She moves her hands to his head, stroking his unruly hair carefully. 

 

She must have fallen asleep for a little while, but she wakes up with a start when a nurse comes into the room, grateful for the understanding smile she throws her way. The nurse hangs more fluids, checks the monitors, checks his pupils and concludes that there is no change in his condition. The drugs should have worn off by now. _He should be awake right now._

 

She inhales a shaky breath and the nurse strokes her back gently, consoling, and it eases her lungs a little. She always knew nurses were magic, but she had never felt it on her body so acutely. 

 

"I don't know why I’m doing this,” she huffs once she’s alone again, wiping at her red, raw eyes. She strokes Bellamy’s hand softly, running her fingertips over the smooth skin and faint freckles she has memorised. Her fingers travel over raised veins and tendons like she is mapping the history of him, tracing lines that tell the story of where he’s been. "Maybe it's my way of staying sane, not forgetting who I am. Who we are.”

 

It hasn’t just been her and him for a while now, it’s beenthem. He isn’t just another half of her soul, he is what reminds her she’s whole. She doesn’t know how to exist without him, and she doesn’t want to find out.

 

"It's been ok for you to wake up for a while now.” She lets her finger trace the line of his jaw, down to where the machine takes over, to where technology sustains his life. The ventilator pushes air into him, before letting it back out and she knows how much he’d hate this. How much he’d hate not being in control. "Why haven't you?"

 

The machine exhales again in answer, stubbornly taking over. She lets out a high pitched sob, a devastating wail, her seams threatening to come apart. With each hour that passes his unconsciousness is harder and harder to swallow, her grief harder and harder to contain. 

 

“ _Please_ ,” she whispers, her head dropping to his chest out of sheer exhaustion. Her head rolls from side to side with the rise and fall of his chest, the beat of his heart thrumming in her ear.

 

There is a jerk, nothing more than a tremor really, but his chest moves irregular to the mechanical pace of the ventilator and she snaps upright. Her eyes rove over him, scanning him for outward signs of change. She reads the monitors, watching for any sudden drop or spike, waiting for them to provide answers one way or another. None come, until she sees his eyes move under his eyelids, watches as his lashes flutter once. Twice. 

 

“Bell?”

 

His head lolls, then he tries to swallow, struggling against the tube in his throat. He coughs, sputters and it’s the single greatest sound he’s ever made.

 

“Don’t try to breathe, let me help you.”

 

She waves off the nurse who has come running, doctor mode suddenly back on. His eyes have flashed open, his beautiful brown eyes tired but full oflife. She unplugs the ventilator, giving him a chance to breathe for himself and when his chest rises and falls on its own tears spring to her eyes again, but this time they are the good kind. 

 

“Stay still so I don’t damage your airway,” she snaps as he tries to fight against the intrusion, his head moving too much for her to extubate.  It feels so good to have a reason to chide him again, and it feels even better hearing the raspy breaths he forces down his throat once the tube is safely out. 

 

“Hey,” she whispers, stroking his face gently, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. “You came back to me.”

 

“Couldn’t leave you behind, Princess.” His voice is cracked and thick, his face slack from anaesthesia and painkillers. He can only manage a half smile, but it’s more than enough. It’s everything. 

 

“Not at Christmas,” she smiles, but it’s fragile. She almost lost everything, she still can’t quite believe it’s real. 

 

“Not ever,” he says, stubborn. His hand squeezes hers, but it feels like he’s got it wrapped around her heart. 

 

He’s tired, his eyes keep fluttering close, but his thumb runs small steady circles over her skin. 

 

“You know why I was on my way over here earlier?” he mumbles, sleepy. 

 

“To feed me salty crackers and force me to drink a bottle of water?”

 

He tries to shake his head but winces at the movement, finding the pain limiting.

 

“To ask you to marry me.”

 

His eyes open just in time to see her jaw drop and her eyes glisten with tears she didn’t even know she could still make. He holds her steady in his gaze, his eyes round and insisting. 

 

“You and me, we’re a forever thing.”

 

Her heart feels full and ready to burst, stuffed to the brim with their shared history and the promise of never having to make new memories without each other. His eyes droop again, but he squeezes her hand again as if he needs to mark her with his words. 

 

“I would’ve said yes,” she whispers through her tears, pressing a soft kiss to his lips as he falls back asleep. 

 

And she’ll be by his side, for each breath after the first, just like in the fairy tales. 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
